UT  Or  STEP 


ARIA  LOU! 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


OUT     OF     STEP 


H  morel 


BY 

MARIA  LOUISE   POOL 

AUTHOR   OF 

"THE  TWO  SALOMES"  "MRS.  KEATS  BRADFORD" 
"  DALLY  "  "  ROWENY  IN  BOSTON  "  ETC. 


NEW    YORK 

HARPER   &    BROTHERS    PUBLISHERS 
1894 


BY  MARIA  LOUISE  POOL. 

DALLY.  MRS.  KEATS  BRADFORD. 

ROWENY  IN  BOSTON.        KATHARINE  NORTH. 

THE  TWO  SALOMES. 
Post  8vo,  Cloth,  Ornamental,  $i  25  each. 

PUBLISHED  BY  HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  NEW  YORK. 
Ey  The  above  works  are  for  sale  by  all  booksellers,  or  will  be 
sent  by  the  publishers,  postage  prepaid,  to  any  part  of  the  United 
States,  Canada,  or  Mexico,  on  receipt  of  price. 


Copyright,  1894,  by  HARPER  &  BROTHERS. 

Att  rights  reserved. 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  TAGB 

I.    IN   MASSACHUSETTS   AGAIN I 

II.    EXPECTING 22 

III.  "WHY   DID   YOU   WAIT?" 39 

IV.  "AS   IF   SOMETHING  WERE   GOING  TO   HAPPEN".      ...  57 
V.    AT   THE   SCUDDERS' 74 

VI.    THE   ONE   HE'S  ENGAGED   TO QI 

VII.    TWO   GIRLS ICQ 

vin.  "HE  KNEW  YOU?" 125 

IX.    THE   TIME   OF   THE  CLETHRA 142 

X.    A   MARRIAGE 159 

XI.    SOME   MONTHS  LATER 176 

XII.    "THAT   LITTLE   RIFT" Igl 

XIII.  WITH   MRS.  DARRAH 2O? 

XIV.  PORTRAIT   PAINTING 222 

XV.    IN   THE   STUDIO 239 

XVI.    REFORMATION? 256 

xvii.   "THE  END  is  VISION" 273 

xvin.  "THE  END  is  VISION  AND  THE  END  is  NEAR"               .  288 


1334433 


OUT  OF   STEP 


IN    MASSACHUSETTS   AGAIN 

THE  girl  came  in  somewhat  breathless,  but  in  spite  of  her 
red  face  and  her  flying  hair  there  was  an  air  of  importance 
about  her.  She  swung  her  bag  of  school-books  on  to  the 
end  of  the  kitchen  table  with  a  thump. 

"  I'll  bet  a  dollar  you  can't  guess  what  I  know !"  she  ex- 
claimed. 

Her  mother  was  kneading  bread  dough  at  the  other  end 
of  the  table.  She  paused  in  that  operation  to  look  admir- 
ingly at  her  daughter,  who  was  sixteen  and  a  bright  light 
in  the  high-school  in  the  village,  two  miles  away.  This 
daughter  was  not,  however,  in  spite  of  her  advancement  in 
the  teens,  much  burdened  with  dignity,  for  she  leaned  half 
her  length  on  the  table  that  she  might  reach  a  dish  of  dried 
apples  which  Mrs.  Scudder  had  just  been  picking  over. 
The  girl  put  her  white  young  teeth  into  a  thick  piece  of  the 
fruit ;  then  she  threw  the  bit  across  the  room  into  the  sink. 

"  I  do  believe,"  she  cried,  "  that  dried  apple  is  the  chew- 
ingest  thing  on  the  face  of  the  earth." 

"  You  needn't  waste  them  apples,  if  they  be  tough,"  said 
her  mother,  with  more  admiration  than  reproof  in  her  man- 
ner. 

"Oh,  I  guess  we  sha'n't  fail  if  we  do  lose  a  few,"  re- 
sponded the  girl,  sitting  down  and  resting  her  arms  on  the 


2  OUT  OF  STEP 

table.  She  glanced  towards  the  dining-room  where  the 
table  was  set.  "I  do  hope  you've  got  something  good 
for  supper,  and  a  lot  of  it.  I'm  as  hungry  as  a  thousand 
bears." 

"  We're  goin'  to  have  thickened  toast  'n'  rhubarb  pie," 
her  mother  answered. 

"  Oh,  goody !  But  I  want  a  boiled  egg  with  my  toast. 
I  tell  you  what,  mother,  a  girl  can't  go  to  high -school 
and  cram,  and  then  walk  two  miles  home  without  some- 
thing to  build  up  the  tissues.  She  can't  do  it." 

Cornelia,  commonly  called  "  Nely,"  gave  her  little  school- 
girl laugh  as  she  finished  this  speech.  Her  mother  smiled 
more  admiringly  than  ever. 

"  What  be  tissues  ?"  she  asked. 

"  Oh,  something  we  have  inside  of  us,  and  that  have  to 
be  built  up  all  the  time,"  replied  the  girl. 

"Is  that  so?  We  didn't  have  no  tissues  inside  of  us 
when  I  went  to  school,"  said  Mrs.  Scudder. 

"Of  course  not.  They  were  not  invented  then.  But,  I 
say,  mother,  you  can't  guess  what  I  know,"  returning  to 
her  first  remark. 

"You're  gittin'  to  know  so  many  things,  Nely,  that  I 
don't  see  how  I  can  even  give  a  guess,"  said  the  mother, 
with  proud  humility. 

"Oh,  'tisn't  anything  I  learned  at  school,"  disclaimed 
Nely,  "but  who  do  you  s'pose  is  going  to  be  our  first  as- 
sistant ?  Miss  Riddle's  got  to  go  away.  Now,  who  do  you 
think's  going  to  take  her  place  ?" 

Mrs.  Scudder  paused  in  her  painstaking  working  of  the 
dough. 

"  Somebody  I  know  ?"  she  asked. 

She  was  deeply  interested,  as  she  would  have  been  in 
the  most  trifling  thing  her  daughter  could  have  mentioned, 
and  she  was  grateful  for  any  subject  upon  which  she  could 
talk,  as  are  most  women  who  live  in  the  country,  where  a 
small  topic  is  a  godsend.  She  now  wished  to  handle  this 
affair  leisurely  and  extract  everything  from  it. 


IN    MASSACHUSETTS   AGAIN  3 

"Yes,  indeed,"  was  the  answer.  "You  know  her  just 
as  well  as  you  know  to  pray." 

"  Nely !"  exclaimed  her  mother,  reprovingly. 

But  Nely  had  just  read  in  school  about  how  the  Sultan 
went  to  Ispahan,  and  had  been  charmed  with  the  verses ; 
she  was  now  charmed  to  quote  them  and  to  shock  her  moth- 
er at  the  same  time. 

"I  guess  it's  Mr.  Storer's  daughter,"  now  said  Mrs. 
Scudder. 

"  It  isn't.  You're  miles  away,"  replied  Nely,  getting  up 
and  taking  a  drink  from  the  cocoanut  dipper  in  the  water 
pail. 

"  Be  you  acquainted  with  the  new  assistant  ?"  inquired 
her  mother. 

"  I  should  say  I  was.  And  I've  always  been  in  love 
with  her.  But  maybe  she's  changed." 

"  Changed  ?" 

"  Yes.  She's  been  away  more  than  a  year.  There ! 
Now  I've  done  it,  and  you  know  who  it  is,  and  I  meant  to 
make  you  guess  a  long  time.  I've  a  great  mind  to  eat  a 
seed-cake,  I'm  so  hungry." 

"  I  wouldn't ;  you'll  spoil  your  supper.  You  don't  mean 
S'lome  Gerry  ?"  hesitatingly. 

"  Yes  ;  I  do." 

"  Mercy  sakes  !     But  she's  in  Floridy." 

"  She's  got  home." 

"  But  she's  consumptive." 

"You  wouldn't  say  so  if  you  saw  her  now.  She  doesn't 
look  real  tough,  but  she  doesn't  look  sick." 

"  You  don't  mean  to  say  you've  seen  her,  Nely  ?  I  de- 
clare I'm  jest  's  interested  's  I  c'n  be.  I  know  they  said 
she  was  gittin'  well  down  there,  but  I  never  thought  she'd 
come  home  alive.  I'd  no  idea  she  would.  She  had  a 
reg'lar  hackin'  cough  jest  like  what  Hatty  Shields  had,  V 
she  went  in  quick  consumption.  You  'ain't  seen  her,  have 
you?" 

"Yes,  I  have.      I  saw  her  in  the  recitation-room  right 


4  OUT  OF   STEP 

after  school.  She  came  with  one  of  the  committee,  and 
she  saw  the  principal,  and  she's  coming  in  next  Monday, 
and  I'm  awfully  glad.  Mother,  I  do  believe  I  will  eat  a 
seed-cake." 

"  It  '11  spoil  your  supper,  if  you  do.  Supper  '11  be  ready 
in  half  an  hour.  I  wish  you'd  git  the  bakin'  pans  'n'  grease 
'urn  for  this  bread.  I  forgot  it  'fore  I  got  my  hands  in  the 
dough." 

Cornelia  returned  from  the  butter)'  with  the  long,  shallow 
pans  and  the  bowl  of  fat.  She  proceeded  with  great  de- 
liberation to  apply  this  fat  to  the  pans.  Her  mother  pres- 
ently took  out  handfuls  of  dough  and  pressed  them  into 
the  baking  dishes. 

"  Then  you  seen  S'lome  ?"  she  repeated. 

"  Yes,"  said  Nely,  "  and  I  like  the  looks  of  her  better 
than  I  ever  did.  She  has  more  in  her  face,  somehow," 
said  this  wise  person  of  sixteen. 

"  Did  she  speak  to  you  ?" 

"  Yes,  she  did.  I  kind  of  hung  round,  you  know.  Almost 
all  the  girls  had  gone,  but  when  I  saw  her  with  Mr.  East 
I  thought  I  wouldn't  hurry.  So  I  was  accidentally  on  the 
steps  when  she  came  out  of  the  door.  We  looked  at  each 
other.  I  declare,  mother,  I  do  like  her  face.  She  was 
going  right  along,  then  she  hesitated,  and  then  she  put  out 
her  hand. 

"'Why,  it's  Nely  Scudder,'  she  said.  Then  she  kissed 
me,  and  I  wanted  to  hug  her,  but  I  didn't ;  I  just  stood 
there,  and  finally  I  had  wit  enough  to  tell  her  I  was  glad 
she  had  come  home;  and  was  she  better?  She  told 
me  she  was  well  now,  and  was  going  to  be  first  assistant 
in  place  of  Miss  Riddle.  When  she  said  that  I  wanted  to 
hug  her  again,  for  Miss  Riddle  is  a  stiff  old  thing,  you 
know — " 

"  Nely !" 

"  I  don't  care ;  she  is  a  stiff  old  thing ;  she  must  be  thirty 
if  she's  a  day,  and  I'm  so  tired  of  having  her  look  at  me 
and  say,  'Miss  Scudder,  less  frivolity,  if  you  please.'  I 


IN   MASSACHUSETTS   AGAIN  5 

don't  really  believe  it  would  spoil  my  supper  if  I  ate  a 
seed-cake,  mother.  I'm  absolutely  starving." 

"  Eat  one  then.  We'll  set  right  down  to  the  table  in  a 
few  minutes.  Ring  the  bell  for  your  father  to  come  in. 
Did  S'lome  say  anything  about  her  mother  ?" 

"No." 

"  When'd  they  git  home  ?" 

"  Day  before  yesterday.  She  said  it  was  by  good  luck 
that  she  heard  Miss  Riddle  was  going,  and  as  she  must  go 
to  earning  money  right  away,  she  thought  she  would  apply 
for  the  position." 

"  Where  be  they  goin'  to  live  ?  The  old  Gerry  place  was 
sold  to  pay  Lyman  Gerry's  debts  after  he  died." 

"  I  don't  know  where  they  are  going  to  live.  Of  course, 
I  didn't  ask  questions." 

"  Of  course  not.  There's  your  father.  You  see  to  boil- 
ing your  egg,  V  I'll  thicken  the  gravy  for  the  toast.  We'll 
set  down  in  a  minute." 

While  the  family  were  at  the  supper  table  and  Nely  was 
actively  engaged  in  supplying  material  for  the  purpose  of 
building  up  her  tissues,  the  talk  was  exclusively  of  the  Ger- 
ry family — of  the  father  who  was  dead,  and  the  mother  and 
daughter  who  were  left.  In  the  midst  of  this  talk  there 
was  a  knock  at  the  back  door. 

Nely  answered  the  summons  and  ushered  in  a  slim,  erect 
woman,  dressed  in  the  plainest  black.  She  was  a  woman 
beyond  middle  age,  with  eyes  somewhat  sunken,  but  having 
a  glance  direct  and  strong  and  true.  Her  face  was  swar- 
thy as  if  it  had  been  tanned  by  being  exposed  to  wind  and 
sun.  And  it  was  a  much-worn  face  also. 

Mrs.  Scudder  rose  from  the  table  hurriedly,  making  a 
clatter  of  dishes  as  she  did  so.  She  went  towards  her  vis- 
itor with  both  hands  extended. 

"  I'm  jes'  's  glad  to  see  you  's  I  can  be  !"  she  exclaimed. 
"Why,  Mrs.  Gerry,  I  sh'd  think  you'd  ben  gone  ten  years! 
How  be  ye  now  you  have  got  back  ?  Do  set  down.  Nely's 
jest  ben  tellin'  of  seein'  S'lome.  How  is  S'lome  ?" 


6  OUT  OF   STEP 

Mr.  Scudder  had  risen  also  and  now  shook  hands  with 
extreme  cordiality,  and  with  a  rotary  motion  that  was  some- 
what hard  on  the  joints  of  the  receiver  of  his  greeting.  But 
Mrs.  Gerry,  who  was  deeply  glad  to  see  her  old  neighbors, 
bore  this  motion  bravely.  Her  face  lighted.  Though  her 
voice  was  steady  as  she  replied,  no  one  could  have  doubted 
her  joy. 

"  Ain't  you  awful  glad  to  git  back  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Scudder. 
"  It  always  seemed  to  me  as  if  Floridy  was  a  dretful  out- 
landish, shif  less  kind  of  a  place  ;  ain't  it  ?" 

"  Tisn't  much  like  New  England,  that's  a  fact,"  said  Mrs. 
Gerry  with  emphasis. 

"  Set  up  V  have  a  cup  of  tea,"  urged  Mr.  Scudder,  "  and 
mar  makes  mighty  good  thickened  toast,"  with  a  grin  in  the 
direction  of  his  wife. 

"  Thank  you,  I  had  my  supper  at  half-past  five." 

"  Where  be  you  stayin'  ?" 

"At  my  brother's." 

"Of  course.  I  knew  your  home  was  all  broke  up,"  sym- 
pathetically. "  Is  S'lome  really  better  ?" 

"  I  think  she's  well,"  was  the  reply. 

"  And  it  cured  her  jest  stayin'  there  in  Floridy  ?" 

"Yes.     You  know  the  climate  is  very  different." 

"  I  s'pose  so.  But  I  don't  see  how  jest  climate  c'n  do  so 
much.  It  don't  seem  's  if  it  could." 

"  Why,  mother !"  exclaimed  the  high-school  girl,  shocked 
at  her  parent's  ignorance,  "  don't  you  know  that  climate  is 
one  of  the  most  powerful  influences  for  good  or  evil  on  the 
human  being  ?" 

Mrs.  Scudder  laughed  and  said,  "  Oh,  sho,  now,  Nely !" 
but  she  glanced  proudly  at  her  guest,  who  was  looking  smil- 
ingly at  the  girl. 

"  Salome  was  just  telling  me,  Nely,"  said  Mrs.  Gerry, 
"  that  she  was  glad  you  were  to  be  one  of  the  pupils  at  the 
high-school." 

"  Oh,  did  she  say  that  ?"  Nely's  face  flushed  with  de- 
light. 


IN    MASSACHUSETTS   AGAIN  7 

"Yes,  indeed."  Mrs.  Gerry  turned  to  Nely's  father. 
She  told  him  she  had  called  now  to  ask  about  that  little 
house  he  owned  at  the  Ledge.  She  had  heard  it  was  va- 
cant. It  was  only  half  a  mile  from  the  school  where  Salome 
would  teach.  She  must  hire  a  place  to  live  in,  and  she 
thought  that  would  be  low-priced. 

"  It's  dretful  out  of  the  way,  Mis'  Gerry,"  Mrs.  Scudder 
hastened  to  state ;  "  I'm  afraid  you'll  be  awful  lonesome 
there." 

"  I'm  used  to  being  out  of  the  way,"  replied  Mrs.  Gerry, 
"  since  I've  been  in  Florida.  I  sha'n't  mind  that.  Besides, 
a  place  in  the  village  would  cost  too  much." 

"  Do  you  really  mean  that  you  want  to  hire  that  Ledge 
house  ?" 

It  was  Mr.  Scudder  who  put  this  question. 

Mrs.  Gerry  repeated  her  request  for  it.  In  a  few  mo- 
ments more  she  had  engaged  it.  She  rose  to  go.  When 
urged  to  stay  longer  she  explained  that  Salome  had  said 
that  she  should  start  out  to  meet  her,  and  she  did  not  want 
the  child,  who  had  had  rather  a  tiresome  day,  to  come 
too  far. 

"  You  still  have  to  be  ca'ful  of  her  then  ?"  inquired  Mrs. 
Scudder. 

"  I've  fallen  into  that  habit,"  was  the  answer,  "  but  really, 
Salome  is  well.  Do  come  and  see  us  when  we  get  settled, 
all  of  you." 

There  was  a  little  more  talk,  and  then  Mrs.  Gerry  was 
walking  down  the  road,  and  all  of  the  Scudders  were  look- 
ing at  her  as  she  went. 

"  She  looks  ten  years  older,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Scudder. 
"  I  declare  I  never  seen  nothin'  beat  it.  That  must  be  a 
terrible  climate  in  Floridy.  I  wonder  how  Salome  looks. 
I  s'pose  her  mother  would  have  stayed  there  if  it  killed  her 
if  she  thought  'twas  good  for  the  girl." 

"  Salome  looks  changed,"  said  Nely,  returning  to  the 
table  for  one  more  seed-cake.  "  But  she's  more  interesting 
than  ever.  I  just  wish  I  could  go  to  Florida !" 


8  OUT  OF  STEP 

"  'Tain't  likely  you  ever  will,"  remarked  her  mother,  com- 
fortably. "  Mebby  'tain't  all  climate  that's  changed  S'lome. 
Mebby  she's  ben  disappointed  down  there." 

"  Disappointed  ?"  repeated  Nely,  questioningly.  She  had 
not  yet  learned  that  this  word  when  applied  to  a  girl  refers 
solely  to  the  question  of  love  for  a  man.  To  say  that  such 
a  woman  must  have  been  disappointed  means  that  a  lover 
must  have  proved  false  to  her. 

"  Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Scudder.  "  P'rhaps  she  had  a  beau 
down  there,  'n'  he  got  sick  of  her.  I  d'  know's  you  c'n  tell 
much  by  them  Southern  men." 

"  Pooh  !"  cried  Nely,  scornfully.  "  It  must  be  a  mighty 
poor  kind  of  a  beau  that  would  get  sick  of  Salome  Gerry. 
I  don't  believe  any  such  thing." 

"  But  you  don't  know  'bout  them  Southern  men,"  went 
on  Mrs.  Scudder,  somewhat  reflectively.  Then  she  looked 
up  suddenly.  "Walter  Redd  went  down  there.  Did  he 
say  nothing  'bout  any  beau  of  S'lome's  ?" 

"  I  guess  not.  You  wouldn't  catch  Walter  Redd  saying 
much  any  way.  He's  awful  gone  on  her  himself." 

With  this  classic  remark  Nely  began  to  put  on  an  all- 
enveloping  'tire  preparatory  to  washing  the  supper  dishes. 

During  the  process  of  clearing  up  after  the  evening  meal 
the  two  women  kept  up  a  desultory  talk  concerning  the 
Gerrys ;  and  even  after  the  two  were  sitting  by  the  lamp, 
the  elder  knitting  and  the  younger  with  her  school-books, 
the  subject  had  not  lost  its  interest.  Mrs.  Scudder  clung 
to  the  idea  of  Salome's  disappointment,  and  Nely  persisted 
in  scouting  that  idea. 

Long  before  the  lingering  twilight  had  given  place  to  even- 
ing Mrs.  Gerry  was  again  at  her  brother's.  When  she  had 
left  Mr.  Scudder's  she  had  walked  quickly  down  the  road, 
hardly  glancing  to  the  right  or  left,  but  feeling  to  the  bottom 
of  her  heart  the  beauty  of  the  hills  and  dales  that  rose  and 
fell  about  her,  all  green  with  the  lovely  green  of  the  new 
summer  time,  all  so  different,  so  utterly  different  from  that 
level  stretch  of  Florida  land  which  she  had  hated.  Yes, 


IN   MASSACHUSETTS   AGAIN  9 

now  that  she  was  away  from  it,  Mrs.  Gerry  dared  to  ac- 
knowledge to  herself  that  she  hated  Florida.  She  wished 
to  forget  the  hot  days  of  that  summer;  the  long  hours  of 
unblinking  sunshine  ;  the  white,  scorching  sand  ;  the  trees 
with  thick,  glossy  leaves ;  the  gloomy  gray  moss  swinging 
forever  from  the  live-oaks.  The  ocean  was  all  that  had  been 
endurable ;  she  had  borne  that  by  thinking  that  it  was  the 
same  ocean  which  washed  against  the  New  England  coast. 

The  woman  paused  in  her  quick  walk  when  she  had 
reached  the  top  of  a  long  hill.  From  this  hill  she  saw  the 
roof  and  the  chimneys  of  the  old  Gerry  place,  where  her 
husband  had  died  more  than  a  year  ago.  The  place  was 
sold  now.  Lyman  Gerry  had  been  in  debt.  Well,  the 
debts  were  paid,  and  the  sweet -natured,  improvident  man 
had  paid  the  last  great  debt.  His  widow  stood  motionless, 
looking  at  the  house  which  had  been  her  home  for  so  many 
years.  She  was  a  woman  whose  soul  revolted  against 
change,  who  longed  for  the  things  which  had  once  been 
hers,  just  because  they  had  been  hers.  She  struck  deep 
roots  down  into  her  native  soil.  But  those  roots  had  been 
ruthlessly  pulled  up,  or  rather,  she  herself  had  pulled  them 
up,  because  she  thought  she  ought.  She  believed  that  a 
person  could  do  whatever  was  right.  That  is,  for  herself 
she  believed  it.  For  Salome  —  Mrs.  Gerry's  whole  figure 
underwent  some  subtle  change  at  the  thought  of  her 
daughter.  Not  that  she  made  any  movement.  She  was 
thinking  that  she  might  have  been  intolerant  if  Salome 
had  been  like  the  Wares,  for  instance.  The  Wares  were 
always  "  right  there  ;"  you  knew  where  to  find  them  ;  their 
position  was  as  well  defined  as  the  edges  of  a  block  of 
granite.  But  Salome — 

An  ineffable  tenderness  came  into  the  sunken  eyes :  still 
the  features  of  the  face  did  not  relax  or  change  in  any  oth- 
er way. 

Mrs.  Gerry  turned  and  looked  across  a  pasture  that  lay 
between  her  and  her  brother's  house.  At  the  far  side  of  it, 
in  the  open  space  where  the  young  oaks  did  not  grow,  was 


I0  OUT   OF   STEP 

a  girl  walking  slowly.  The  woman  could  just  see  that  this 
girl  was  swinging  her  hat  in  her  hand.  The  glow  from  the 
red  west  was  on  that  open  space  of  pasture  and  on  the 
slender  figure.  The  birds  were  flying  this  way  and  that  over 
the  girl,  giving  out  their  blithe  twilight  songs.  Somewhere 
far  at  the  right  a  whippoorwill  had  begun  to  sing,  melan- 
choly and  listant. 

Until  now  Mrs.  Gerry  had  thought  she  liked  a  whippoor- 
will's  cry.  Now  she  heard  it  with  Salome's  ears,  and  won- 
dered if  the  sound  would  depress  her  daughter.  Salome 
took  such  notice  of  everything,  and  she  was  so  queer  about 
some  things.  But  then  she  was  well,  perfectly  well.  Her 
mother  could  not  be  too  grateful  for  that. 

So  intently  did  she  watch  that  form  that  she  did  not  see 
another  figure  coming  up  the  hill  towards  her  by  the  road. 
Just  as  Salome  waved  her  hat  to  her  mother,  a  young  man 
joined  Mrs.  Gerry. 

"  I'm  real  glad  to  see  you,"  he  said.  "  I  only  just  heard 
you  had  come.  I  was  going  to  get  round  and  call  this  even- 
ing." 

While  he  was  speaking  Walter  Redd  was  holding  Mrs. 
Gerry's  hand.  In  a  moment  she  put  her  other  hand  over 
the  large,  brown,  well-shaped  fingers.  The  gesture  meant 
much  with  the  undemonstrative  woman. 

"  I  hope  you  will  come,"  she  answered. 

She  paused  before  she  spoke  again.  The  sight  of  Redd's 
dark,  controlled  face  affected  her  strangely.  He  seemed 
so  large  and  strong  that  all  at  once  she  felt  weak  and  un- 
nerved. But  she  did  not  look  unnerved.  One  might  al- 
most have  said  that  she  was  cold.  A  strenuous  effort  tow- 
ards composure  so  often  gives  a  cold  aspect. 

"  Florida  doesn't  agree  with  you,  Mrs.  Gerry,"  said  Redd. 
"  I  didn't  like  it  myself  very  well  when  I  was  there.  But 
there  are  plenty  who  do  like  it.  Let's  see,  you've  been  there 
more  than  a  year,  haven't  you  ?" 

"  Yes ;  we  went  the  fall  before  last,  you  know.  We  stayed 
afl  that  year,  and  so  much  into  this." 


IN   MASSACHUSETTS   AGAIN  II 

"  I  should  think  the  summer  must  be  dreadful  there,"  re- 
marked Redd. 

Though  he  looked  so  calm,  the  young  man  hardly  knew 
what  he  was  saying.  His  eyes,  roving  about,  had  now  seen 
that  approaching  figure  in  the  pasture. 

"  Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Gerry,  "  the  Summer  was  dreadful. 
Day  after  day  it  was  like  being  in  an  oven.  The  sun  was 
like—" 

Here  she  paused  as  if  under  the  influence  of  something 
she  could  not  resist. 

"  Walter,"  she  said  in  a  whisper,  as  though  some  one 
might  overhear  her,  "  haven't  you  got  over  it  any  ?  I  hoped 
you  would  get  over  it  long  before  this.  Men  are  so  differ- 
ent from  women  about  such  things." 

"  Got  over  it !"  repeated  the  man.  "  I  don't  know  how 
different  men  are,  I'm  sure.  But  I  never  shall  get  over  it. 
There  she  is  coming  now." 

Redd's  features  set  themselves  hardly.  Still  looking  at 
the  distant  Salome,  he  asked  : 

"  Where  is  Moore  ?" 

"  I  don't  know." 

"  What  ?     Don't  you  know  anything  about  him  ?" 

"No." 

"  I  didn't  think  he  was  like  that,"  said  Redd,  with  an  ac- 
cent of  savageness.  "  I  liked  him.  I  couldn't  help  liking 
him." 

"You  needn't  blame  Mr.  Moore,"  quickly  replied  Mrs. 
Gerry.  "He  did  all  he  could.  He  was  broken-hearted. 
But  Salome  held  out.  She  said  she  thought  it  was  for  his 
good  that  she  shouldn't  be  his  wife.  She  said  she  hoped 
she  could  do  anything  for  his  good  ;  but  that  she  didn't 
care  what  became  of  her.  Well,"  again  came  that  pause  in 
Mrs.  Gerry's  speech,  "  she  held  out  then.  Sometimes  I  don't 
know  what  she  would  do  now.  We  don't  talk  of  that  time." 

"  It  must  have  been  something  of  great  weight.  I  am  not 
asking  what  it  was,  Mrs.  Gerry,  that  could  make  Salome  take 
such  a  stand." 


I2  OUT   OF   STEP 

Redd  still  watched  the  girl. 

"  Yes,  it  was  of  great  weight,"  was  the  answer. 

"  Perhaps  in  time  the  obstacles  will  be  removed." 

"No,"  replied  the  woman.  Then  somewhat  hurriedly: 
"  Walter,  I  know  what  you  are  thinking.  But  don't  fix  your 
mind  upon  any  such  thing." 

Redd  did  not  reply.  He  was  now  perfectly  calm  in  ap- 
pearance. He  left  Mrs.  Gerry  and  walked  with  his  delib- 
erate, masterful  kind  of  movement  towards  the  road-side 
fence. 

Salome  had  nearly  reached  the  fence.  Her  thin,  sensi- 
tive face  lighted  with  pleasure.  She  hastened.  She  took 
Redd's  offered  hand,  and  he  almost  lifted  her  over  into  the 
highway. 

"  How  good  it  is  to  see  you,  Walter !"  she  exclaimed. 

Her  voice  rang  clear  and  steady ;  her  eyes  shone.  The 
delicate  pallor  of  her  face  had  been  browned  over  by  the 
Florida  sun  and  wind  ;  but  no  flush  rose  beneath  the  tan. 
She  did  not  color  now  any  more  than  when  Miss  Nunally 
had  asked  her  why  she  never  blushed. 

"  I  hope  you're  glad  to  get  home,  Salome,"  said  Redd. 

She  smiled. 

"  It  was  time  for  me  to  come  home,"  she  answered,  "  and 
I  am  glad,  any  way,"  correcting  herself,  "  I'm  glad  on  moth- 
er's account.  Poor  mother !"  putting  her  hand  through  Mrs. 
Gerry's  arm,  "  she  doesn't  love  the  South.  She's  a  Yankee  : 
aren't  you,  mother  ?  A  Yankee  of  the  Yankees." 

"  And  pray  what  are  you,  Salome  ?"  asked  Redd. 

"  I  ?"  laughing.  "  I'm  one  of  those  lizards  that  come  out 
and  bask  in  the  sun.  You  mustn't  tell  me  that  lizards  don't 
have  their  uses,  Walter." 

But  Redd  had  no  sympathy  with  this  kind  of  talk.  He 
hardly  knew  what  it  meant.  He  thought  Salome  seemed 
older.  She  ought  not  to  seem  older  in  less  than  two 
years.  He  must  acknowledge  that  she  looked  in  good 
health  ;  not  red,  aggressive  health,  of  course.  He  glanced 
away  from  her  over  the  fields.  Her  face  was  just  as  sen- 


IN   MASSACHUSETTS   AGAIN  13 

sitive,  only  the  lines  were  strengthened  somehow  by  firmer 
health. 

Redd  felt  that  she  was  far  away  from  him.  But  how 
friendly  she  was  !  How  many  times  he  had  asked  himself  if 
he  should  ever  see  her  again.  He  had  given  up  thinking  he 
should  ever  see  her,  and  here  she  was  standing  beside  him 
talking  to  him  in  the  voice  he  remembered.  He  wondered 
why,  now  that  he  was  with  her  once  more,  the  time  since  he 
had  met  her  should  seem  even  longer  than  it  had  done. 

"  I'm  going  to  settle  down  and  be  of  some  use  in  the 
world,"  said  Salome.  "  I'm  going  to  take  care  of  my  moth- 
er now,"  glancing  as  she  spoke  at  her  mother.  "  She  has 
always  had  lurking  fears  that  I  was  not  practical.  I'm  going 
to  prove  to  her  that  she  has  been  wrong." 

Redd's  eyes  were  on  the  elder  woman  as  he  asked : 

"  What  is  she  going  to  do  ?"  But  it  was  the  girl  who  an- 
swered : 

"  I'm  first  assistant  at  the  high-school.  I  take  Miss  Rid- 
dle's place.  I'm  useful.  I  support  my  mother.  I  hold  my 
head  up  in  the  world." 

"  I  never  noticed  as  you  held  your  head  down,"  respond- 
ed Redd.  He  tried  to  say  something  about  how  rejoiced  he 
was  that  she  had  regained  her  health.  He  thought  he  said 
it  very  awkwardly.  When  he  had  finished  speaking  the 
two  women  moved  forward,  wishing  him  good-night  with 
hearty  cordiality. 

The  young  man  kept  along  the  upper  road,  his  hands 
deep  in  his  pockets,  his  head  bent.  At  a  curve  he  paused 
and  looked  back.  As  he  gazed  his  face  hardened  more  and 
more.  If  he  had  been  a  man  who  ever  talked  to  himself,  he 
would  now  have  said  aloud  : 

"  Walter  Redd,  I  didn't  know  you  were  such  a  fool." 

But  he  did  not  speak.  Presently  he  was  round  the  cor- 
ner and  could  not  see  the  two  women  any  more.  Presently, 
also,  the  red  faded  from  the  sky,  and  a  mist  rose  from  all  the 
low  places  where  the  frogs  were  peeping. 

"  It  is  like  the  frogs  in  the  moat  at  Augustine,"  said  Sa- 


14  OUT   OF   STEP 

lome.     "  How  warm  it  must  be  down  there  now !     And  do 
you  suppose  it  is  Mrs.  Job  Maine's  day  for  '  thur  shakes '?" 

The  girl  laughed,  and  her  mother  laughed  in  response. 
They  were  very  cheerful.  And  they  soon  fell  to  talking 
about  the  high-school,  and  Salome  said  she  must  furbish 
up  her  mathematics ;  she  was  never  strong  in  mathematics. 

"  I  hope  you  won't  get  too  tired,"  said  Mrs.  Gerry.  "  You 
are  not  used  to  being  shut  up  in  a  room  all  day." 

"Oh,  I  sha'n't  get  too  tired,"  was  the  reply.  "There's 
lots  of  work  in  me.  It's  time  I  was  beginning  it ;  don't  you 
think  so,  mother  ?" — catching  her  mother's  glance — "  you 
needn't  worry  one  bit  about  me.  I  long  to  work ;  and  I'm 
tough,"  laughing  again  ;  "  I'm  what  they  call  '  tough  as  a 
knot.'  It's  going  to  be  your  turn  to  take  things  easy  now. 
I  shall  bring  my  wages  to  you,  and  you  will  save  them.  I 
shall  have  fifty  dollars  a  month,  you  know.  How  much  do 
you  think  it  will  cost  us  to  live — to  be  fairly  comfortable  ? 
I  needn't  have  beefsteak  very  often  in  these  days.  I'm 
well." 

The  girl  straightened  her  slender  figure.  "What's  good 
enough  for  you  is  good  enough  for  me." 

She  turned  towards  her  mother,  and  suddenly  drew  her 
mother's  hand  through  her  arm.  Mrs.  Gerry  could  not  help 
smiling  at  the  thrifty  calculation  as  to  ways  and  means. 

"  How  much  do  you  think  it  will  cost  us  to  live  ?"  repeat- 
ed the  girl. 

"  The  rent  will  be  four  dollars  a  month,"  was  the  reply. 
"  Twenty-five  dollars  ought  to  cover  everything.  But  your 
clothes — " 

I  don't  mean  they  shall  be  anything  at  present.  Be 
thankful  I  am  not  vain,  mother.  Then  we  can  save  the 
rest  of  my  salary  towards  what  I  owe  Mrs.  Darrah." 

"  Yes,  that  is  what  I  was  thinking.  In  two  years,  if  we 
are  well,  with  what  I  can  help,  she  will  be  paid." 

Mrs.  Gerry  spoke  with  a  kind  of  unconscious  solemnity. 
The  two  women  walked  on  in  silence  for  a  few  moments. 
The  farm-house  to  which  they  were  going  now  stood  before 


IN   MASSACHUSETTS   AGAIN  15 

them,  looking  black  against  the  pale  light  of  the  west. 
There  had  come  a  chill  in  the  air,  though  the  day  had  been 
warm. 

"  I  wish  you  had  worn  your  shawl,"  said  Mrs.  Gerry, 
anxiously.  "  Let  us  hurry." 

"  I  am  not  cold ;  and  I  don't  want  to  hurry,"  responded 
the  girl.  She  held  her  mother  back  a  little,  hesitating  be- 
fore she  said,  "  I  suppose  you  are  very  anxious  about  that 
debt,  aren't  you  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Oh,  I  knew  that  very  well."  Then  Salome  continued, 
in  a  light  tone,  "but  we  needn't  worry  in  the  least.  Mrs. 
Darrah  has  so  much  money  that  even  Portia  Nunally  could 
not  spend  it  nearly  all.  There'll  be  no  harm  done  if  I  never 
pay  it." 

"  Salome !" 

"No,"  repeated  the  younger  woman,  with  a  persistent 
disregard,  "  not  the  least  harm.  I'm  not  going  to  lie  awake 
o'  nights  thinking  of  that." 

"  Certainly  you  need  not  lie  awake  nights,"  said  Mrs. 
Gerry,  patiently,  "  but  we'll  save  all  we  can.  It  is  a  just 
debt.  And  Mrs.  Darrah  has  been  kind.  It  is  a  just  debt." 
A  trifle  of  hardness  came  into  the  speaker's  voice  as  she 
spoke  those  words  a  second  time. 

Salome  gazed  at  her  companion  through  the  gathering 
dusk.  Then  she  said,  still  lightly : 

"  Oh  yes,  I  know  it  is  just.  But  how  unlovely  justice  is  ! 
Mother,  I  hate  justice  !" 

Mrs.  Gerry  made  no  answer.  The  two  walked  quickly 
up  the  path  towards  the  door  of  the  house. 

The  next  moment  Salome  was  seized  upon  by  the  three- 
year-old  son  of  the  family,  who  had  been  allowed  to  sit  up 
for  her  return.  The  two  were  instantly  in  the  gayest  of 
frolics.  Salome's  laughter  and  song  sounded  through  the 
rooms. 

Mrs.  Gerry  and  her  sister-in-law  sat  talking  in  a  desultory 
fashion  about  what  should  be  put  into  the  house  at  the  Ledge. 


!6  OUT  OF   STEP 

The  brother's  wife  was  going  to  lend  some  old  furniture 
which  had  been  her  father's,  and  which  was  now  in  the  attic. 

"What  good  company  S'lome  is  !"  exclaimed  the  hostess. 
"  I  do  b'lieve  my  childrun  'd  soon  love  her's  well's  they  do 
me.  She's  real  well  now,  ain't  she  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"I'm  awful  glad.  But  somehow  I  sh'd  be  kinder  'fraid 
if  she  was  mine  to  have  her  in  such  good  spirits.  Jest  hear 
her !"  as  the  child's  laugh  and  the  girl's  laugh  rang  out  from 
the  bedroom  where  it  was.  supposed  that  the  boy  was  being 
put  to  bed. 

"  I'm  sure  I  don't  mean  to  worry  because  Salome  is  in 
good  spirits,"  answered  Mrs.  Gerry.  "  There's  worry  enough 
in  the  world  without  going  to  meet  it  in  that  way." 

"  Mebby  there  is,"  with  a  shake  of  the  head ;  "  but  I'm 
always  anxious  when  folks  seem  too  happy." 

The  speaker  paused  with  the  air  of  having  something 
more  to  say.  "I  have  heard,"  she  went  on,  "that  S'lome's 
ben  disappointed  sence  she  went  South.  Would  you  jest 
as  lieves  tell  me  if  there  was  any  young  man  payin'  atten- 
tion to  her  down  there  ?" 

Mrs.  Gerry  could  not  help  hesitating  an  instant.  She 
resented  the  question ;  but  she  must  meet  it  in  some  way. 

"  It  wasn't  a  place,"  she  said,  finally,  "  where  we  should 
be  likely  to  meet  young  men.  Why,  it  was  the  lonesomest, 
most  God-forsaken  spot  you  can  imagine." 

"  Odd  S'lome  liked  it,  wasn't  it  ?" 

"  She  was  getting  well  all  the  time,  you  know,"  was  the 
answer. 

"  That  does  make  a  difference.  I  remember  when  Rob- 
ert was  gittin'  up  from  that  fever — " 

And  now  the  woman  was  well  started  on  a  long  retro- 
spect; Mrs.  Gerry  yielded  to  a  sense  of  relief.  But  she 
could  not  forget  that  remark  about  her  daughter's  having 
been  "disappointed"  in  Florida.  Who  could  have  said 
such  a  thing  as  that  ?  Who  could  possibly  know  anything  of 
what  had  happened  there  ?  Although  Mrs.  Gerry  was  not  a 


IN    MASSACHUSETTS   AGAIN  If 

woman  of  impulse,  yet  she  was  conscious  now  of  an  impulse 
to  go  away  to  some  place  where  she  and  her  daughter  were 
not  known.  But  all  through  those  long,  those  interminable 
months  in  the  South,  she  had  hoped  and  waited  for  the  time 
to  come  when  she  could  return  to  her  native  town.  She 
desired  with  intensity  that  she  might  dwell  among  those 
rocky  pastures,  under  that  sky.  There  had  hardly  been  an 
hour  when  she  had  not  fought  against  homesickness.  The 
very  balm  of  the  air  "  went  against  her,"  as  she  would  have 
said.  She  wished  for  that  east  wind  which  sweeps  savagely 
in  from  the  coast. 

Still  Mrs.  Gerry  would  not  have  acknowledged  that  she 
felt  such  a  longing.  She  considered  it  a  weakness  which 
she  must  fight  down. 

Salome  often  said  that  her  mother's  idea  of  being  good 
was  to  fight  some  tendency  all  the  time.  If  she  did  not 
readily  find  a  tendency,  a  little  self-analysis  would  be  sure  to 
reveal  one.  But  she  said  this  smilingly,  and  hanging  ten- 
derly about  her  mother. 

Now  as  Mrs.  Gerry  thought  of  what  her  sister-in-law  had 
said,  and  heard  Salome's  gay  voice,  she  wanted  to  put  her 
hand  to  her  head  as  if  such  a  gesture  would  help  her  to 
think  clearly. 

It  certainly  was  very  confusing  to  live  with  Salome.  It 
certainly  tended  to  upset  many  of  the  elder  woman's  life- 
long theories.  Mrs.  Gerry  knew  that  her  theories  must  be 
right.  They  were  right.  They  admitted  of  no  different  in- 
terpretation from  what  she  had  always  given  them.  Truth 
and  self-denial.  To  tell  and  live  the  truth ;  and  to  sacrifice 
one's  self. 

A  sudden  quiet  had  come  upon  the  occupants  of  the  ad- 
joining bedroom.  The  only  sound  now  heard  was  the  dron- 
ing sound  of  the  voice  of  the  woman  who  was  telling  how 
Robert  was  when  getting  up  from  his  fever. 

Mrs.  Gerry  saw  her  daughter's  figure  appear  noiselessly 
in  the  doorway.  The  girl  held  up  her  finger  and  glanced 
back,  smiling. 


1 8  OUT  OF   STEP 

The  story  of  how  Robert  got  up  from  his  fever  suddenly 
ceased. 

"Is  Benny  asleep?"  asked  Benny's  mother. 

Salome  nodded. 

"  Well,"  said  Benny's  mother,  "  mebby  he'll  let  you  play 
with  him  again  to-morrow." 

Salome  said  in  that  case  she  would  try  to  wait  until  to- 
morrow. She  came  forward  and  sat  down  in  a  large  chair, 
leaning  back  in  it  and  stretching  out  her  feet  in  a  way  that 
her  hostess  believed  to  be  graceful,  but  also  dimly  felt  to  be 
in  some  manner  not  exactly  the  position  for  a  girl  to  take. 
She  thought  vaguely  that  "  mebby  it  was  unlady-like."  She 
told  herself  that  she  had  "  kinder  forgotten  that  S'lome  Ger- 
ry was  jes'  's  she  was.  She  was  a  real  nice  girl,  'n'  you  was 
drawed  to  her  some  way.  There  was  Benny  now  " — remem- 
bering how  Benny  had  screamed  a  few  hours  before  because 
Salome  had  not  come  as  soon  as  he  had  expected  her. 
And  when  the  mother  thought  of  Benny's  devotion,  she  for- 
gave Salome  for  not  sitting  upright  in  a  chair  as  the  femi- 
nine human  being  ought. 

The  woman  looked  narrowly  at  the  girl  that  she  might 
decide  if  she  saw  signs  of  her  guest  having  been  "  disap- 
pointed." It  seemed  to  her  that  if  a  girl  were  disappointed 
she  must  bear  a  distinct  and  unmistakable  sign  of  it  some- 
where upon  her.  She  did  not  know  precisely  what  this  sign 
was,  still  she  thought  she  should  know  it  if  she  saw  it. 

Salome's  face  and  head  were  well  defined  against  the 
shabby  dark  covering  of  the  chair ;  and  the  kerosene  lamp 
stood  on  the  table  at  the  other  side  of  her. 

As  a  girl  who  had  been  to  Florida  for  her  health  and  had 
come  back  cured  she  would  be  interesting,  though  it  was 
very  difficult  for  one  to  believe  that  merely  staying  in  Flor- 
ida would  cure  anybody  "without  medicine  nor  nothing." 
If  it  had  been  bitters  now— but  Salome  must  be  odd  in- 
deed to  be  cured  "  jest  by  climate." 

"  Be  you  asleep,  S'lome  ?"  asked  the  woman. 

"  No,"  said  Salome,  without  opening  her  eyes. 


IN   MASSACHUSETTS    AGAIN  19 

"  I  was  goin'  to  tell  you  that  my  husband  heard,  when  he 
went  to  mill  this  mornin',  that  Walter  Redd  was  shinin'  up 
to  Mr.  Leech's  second  daughter.  Walter  used  to  be  one 
of  your  beaus,  didn't  he,  S'lome  ?" 

"  I  could  almost  say  that  he  used  to  be  my  only  beau," 
Salome  replied,  still  without  changing  her  position  or  open- 
ing her  eyes. 

The  woman  laughed  a  little.  She  kept  a  close  watch  on 
the  girl. 

"  I  hope  you  ain't  goin'  to  feel  bad  if  he  should  marry 
Sarah  Leech,"  she  remarked.  "  Sarah  '11  have  as  much  as 
two  thousand  dollars  if  she  outlives  her  aunt  Sarah,  I  ex- 
pect. I  guess  Walter  wouldn't  be  sorry  if  his  wife  had  some 
money." 

"  He  ought  to  be  glad,"  responded  Salome. 

In  the  pause  that  followed  these  words,  Mrs.  Gerry  felt 
again  the  stirring  of  that  wish  that  she  and  her  daughter 
had  not  come  back  to  a  place  where  they  were  known.  She 
wondered  how  Salome  was  feeling  about  this  questioning, 
which  was  presently  resumed. 

"  I  s'pose  you  knew  lots  of  fellers  when  you  was  in  Flor- 
idy,  didn't  you  ?"  was  the  next  inquiry. 

Mrs.  Gerry  turned  her  face  away  that  she  might  not  ap- 
pear to  be  listening.  She  knew  that  their  hostess  was  now 
in  pursuit  of  some  clew  to  the  "  disappointment." 

In  these  days  the  mother  did  not  quite  know  what  to 
expect  of  her  daughter.  There  were  times  when  the  two 
almost  seemed  strangers  to  each  other,  so  alien  were  their 
moods. 

Salome  now  opened  her  eyes  and  turned  them  towards 
her  interlocutor. 

"  It  was  a  very  lonesome  place,"  she  said.  "  We  really 
knew  only  two  men  while  we  were  there.  What  is  it  that 
you  want  to  know  ?  If  you  will  only  ask  me  point-blank, 
why— perhaps  I'll  answer  you,"  with  a  laugh. 

Benny's  mother  drew  herself  up  somewhat  at  this.  She 
said  she  didn't  know  as  she  was  one  that  ever  wanted  to 


20  OUT   OF    STEP 

pry  into  other  folks's  business ;  but  bein'  connected  with 
the  Gerrys  so,  she  had  been  arst  things  that,  if  she  knew, 
mebby  she  could  stop  folks's  mouths. 

"  There  isn't  the  least  necessity  for  stopping  folks's 
mouths,"  said  Salome ;  "  let  them  remain  gaping  and  un- 
filled." 

The  woman  stared  for  a  moment  in  angry  perplexity.  It 
was  a  fresh  grievance  that  Salome  should  answer  in  that 
way,  and  dimly  she  was  aware  of  a  sense  of  thunder.  Sa- 
lome rose  slowly.  She  stretched  her  arms  above  her  head. 
She  had  always,  but  now  more  than  ever,  a  kind  of  freedom 
and  spontaneity  of  bodily  movement  that  resembled  the 
movement  of  a  graceful  animal. 

"  Mother,  I  am  so  sleepy,"  she  said. 

The  two  went  up-stairs  to  the  room  they  occupied  to- 
gether. When  the  door  had  closed  upon  them  the  girl 
turned  and  grasped  her  companion's  arm.  Her  eyes  shone, 
but  her  voice  did  not  accord  with  her  glance  as  she  asked : 

"  What  was  she  talking  about  ?" 

"  I  don't  know.  She  was  inquisitive.  You  know  how 
they  are  here,"  answered  Mrs.  Gerry. 

"  Yes,  oh  yes,  I  know.  And  you  like  to  be  among  such 
people,  mother.  They  are  your  kind,  in  a  way ;  but  as  for 
me" —  the  girl  put  the  palms  of  her  hands  together  with  a 
suggestion  of  violence — "  I  hate  them." 

When  she  had  spoken  thus,  Salome  evidently  tried  to 
control  herself. 

"  Does  Job  Maine  suit  you  better  ?"  inquired  Mrs.  Gerry. 

But  Salome  did  not  answer.  She  had  gone  to  the  win- 
dow and  had  thrown  up  the  sash.  She  leaned  out,  inhaling 
the  cool,  damp  air  of  the  night.  There  was  a  heavy  scent 
of  rank  green  leaves  in  the  air,  and  the  same  whippoonvill, 
the  girl  thought,  that  had  sung  when  she  was  a  child,  was 
again  singing  in  the  bushes  across  the  road. 

"  Mother,"  said  Salome,  after  a  while,  "  something  hap- 
pened to  me  to-day." 

As  she  spoke  with  her  head  out  of   the  window  Mrs. 


IN   MASSACHUSETTS    AGAIN  21 

Gerry  did  not  hear  distinctly  at  first,  and  the  words  had 
to  be  repeated.  But  Salome  still  leaned  there  in  the  same 
position.  Her  mother  sat  down  quickly.  She  wished  that 
she  could  cease  being  so  much  on  the  alert  all  the  time. 

"  Nothing  unpleasant,  I  hope,"  she  said,  calmly. 

"  That's  just  as  you  take  it,"  replied  Salome.  She  came 
back  into  the  room  and  closed  the  window.  She  rjut  her 
cold  hands  on  her  mother's  arm. 

"  It  happened  to  me  that  I  wrote  a  letter  to — are  you 
listening,  mother  ? — to  Mr.  Moore." 


II 

EXPECTING 

MRS.  GERRY'S  instant  and  involuntary  effort  towards 
self-restraint  was  so  far  successful  that  she  was  able  to  say 
"  Indeed !"  in  her  usual  tone,  and  as  if  Salome's  writing 
to  Mr.  Moore  were  much  the  same  as  her  writing  to  an  or- 
dinary acquaintance. 

In  the  silence  that  followed  the  whippoorwill's  note 
sounded  stridently  melancholy. 

Salome  clasped  her  hands  over  her  head  and  walked 
about  the  room. 

"  Do  you  think  I  was  wrong  ?"  she  asked,  at  last. 

"  It  is  a  year  since  you  have  heard  from  him  ?"  was  the 
counter  question. 

"  A  year  and  two  days." 

"A  man's  heart  may  change  so  in  a  year,"  said  Mrs. 
Gerry. 

"  I  thought  of  that— I  thought  of  that !"  exclaimed  Sa- 
lome, her  voice  suddenly  thrilling  on  the  words,  "but  he 
said  he  should  not  change.  He  said — oh,  mother !  I  can- 
not tell  you  what  he  said  that  last  time  when  he  came  to 
Augustine.  You  have  been  thinking  I  had  forgotten  ;  that 
I  was  adjusting  myself  to  circumstances.  Haven't  you 
been  thinking  that,  mother  ?" 

"  Sometimes.  I  am  sure  I  have  been  hoping  that  you 
had  adjusted  yourself  to  circumstances,"  was  the  earnest 
reply. 

"According  to  you,"  exclaimed  Salome,  "that  is  all  that 
life  is ;  that  horrible  adjustment.  Now  I— I—"  She  started 
again  to  walk  across  the  room.  Her  face  was  so  pale  that 


EXPECTING  23 

the  glow  upon  it  had  a  spiritual  aspect.  "  I  am  not  going 
to  adjust  myself.  I  am  going  to  live.  -  I've  been  trying 
your  way  all  these  months.  Haven't  I  been  good  ?  To  / 
be  good,  you  know,  mother,  is  to  be  ice,  stone,  iron  —  all 
those  things  from  which  a  heart  of  flesh  revolts.  To-day 
something  snapped.  I  was  glad.  I  was  sitting  at  that 
desk  in  the  school-house  where  I  am  to  work.  There  were 
ink  and  paper  there.  I  wrote  a  line  to  Mr.  Moore.  I  ad- 
dressed it  to  the  firm.  He  said  he  could  always  hear, 
wherever  he  was,  in  that  way.  When  I  left  the  place  I 
mailed  the  letter.  It  has  gone  by  this  time.  It  may  be 
in  his  hands  by  to-morrow  morning ;  or  he  may  be  trav- 
elling." 

Salome's  words  came  so  fast  that  she  appeared  breath- 
less when  she  had  finished  speaking. 

She  seemed  to  radiate  hope  and  eager  life. 

Mrs.  Gerry  sat  in  entire  contrast  to  her  daughter.  Her 
motionless  position  was  in  itself  something  like  a  reproof. 

"  What  did  you  write  ?"  she  asked. 

"  Oh,  I  did  not  need  to  write  much.  I  simply  said  that 
I  had  changed  my  mind.  That  was  all." 

"  But  why  have  you  changed  your  mind  ?"  was  the  in- 
exorable question. 

"  Why  ?  Good  heavens  !  Mother,  why  do  we  choose 
happiness  rather  than  misery  ?" 

The  girl  stood  gazing  at  the  figure  sitting  in  the  chair. 
"  As  for  me,"  she  went  on,  quickly,  "  I  think  I  have  borne 
it  a  good  while  ;  don't  you  think  so,  mother  ?" 

Mrs.  Gerry  leaned  forward  and  took  her  daughter's  hand, 
attempting  to  draw  the  girl  down  into  her  arms.  But  Sa- 
lome resisted,  explaining  that  she  must  move,  must  walk, 
that  she  could  not  keep  still. 

Mrs.  Gerry  did  not  lose  sight  of  the  main  point. 

"But  nothing,  is  altered  since  you  would  not  listen  to 
him,"  she  said ;  "  all  is  just  as  it  was.  You  are  the  same 
girl.  Nothing  can  be  altered,  from  the  very  nature  of  things. 
Why  did  you  go  through  this  year  of  suffering  ?  Why  did 


24  OUT   OF   STEP 

you  make  Mr.  Moore  suffer,  since  now  you  change  your 
mind  ?" 

"  Oh,  how  reasonable  you  are,  mother !"  cried  Salome, 
"  and  what  a  thing  it  is  to  be  reasonable  !  But  I  have  had 
enough  of  it.  I  have  had  more  than  twelve  months  stuffed 
full  of  pure  reasonableness.  I  have  lain  down  and  risen  up 
in  reason,  and  supped  and  drank  reason.  Mother,  I  let 
myself  be  alive  again.  And  to  be  alive  is  to  love  Randolph 
Moore  so  much  that,  like  you,  I  regret  my  year  of  being 
conscientious.  What  a  foolish  thing  it  is  to  be  conscien- 
tious !  I  have  lost  all'  those  weeks  and  months  out  of  my 
life  just  by  that  making  believe  to  have  a  conscience.  I 
give  it  all  up.  Who  was  that  girl  who  had  a  soul  when  she 
began  to  love,  or  did  she  cease  to  have  a  soul  as  soon  as 
she  loved  ?  It  makes  no  difference.  Oh,  mother !  Do 
you  think  he  will  come  soon  ?  Do  you  remember  his  face 
as  I  do  ?  The  look  in  his  eyes  ?  You  always  liked  him. 
Bless  you  for  that !  But  who  could  help  liking  him  ?  I 
hope  he  will  get  my  note  directly.  I  hope  he  is  not  away. 
Now  I  have  written,  I  wonder  so  much  that  I  did  not  write 
long  ago.  Oh,  mother  !" 

As  that  last  cry  left  her  lips  Salome  sank  down  on  her 
knees  by  her  mother's  side,  and  pressed  her  face  into  the 
folds  of  her  mother's  gown.  She  began  to  sob  in  that  vio- 
lent, reckless  fashion  which  reveals  how  intolerable  has 
been  a  previous  restraint. 

Mrs.  Gerry  bent  over  and  encircled  the  girl  in  her  arms, 
not  saying  anything,  only  making  an  inarticulate  murmur  of 
endearment  and  soothing. 

What  she  was  thinking  was  that  it  had  all  been  for  noth- 
ing—worse than  nothing.  And  Salome  must  have  suffered 
even  more  than  the  mother  had  guessed. 

The  elder  woman  was  tempted  to  warn  the  girl  to  be 
ready  for  any  changes  that  a  year  might  have  made  in 
Moore.  And  Moore  had  been  sent  away  at  the  last  with 
absolutely  no  hope,  so  far  as  he  could  gather  hope  from 
anything  Salome  had  said.  She  had  been  on  a  pinnacle  of 


EXPECTING  25 

resolve  and  sacrifice.  Rather  than  endanger  the  happiness 
of  her  lover  she  persisted.  And  she  had  some  kind  of  an 
idea  that  suffering  would  atone  for  that  crime  of  forgery. 
Not  that  she  could  bring  home  to  herself  any  sense  of  re- 
pentance. But  to  suffer  might  atone  ;  to  suffer  deeply  and 
continuously.  /How  should  she  know  that  suffering  never 
atoned,  that  nothing  atones  for  the  past  ?\ 

At  last  Salome  looked  up.  She  pressed  her  hair  back 
with  both  hands. 

"  Now  that  I  have  written,"  she  said,  "  I  know  that  every 
minute  I  have  lived  since  I  saw  him  was  only  a  minute  that 
was  leading  up  to  the  time  when  I  must  write,  (if  you  love, 
nothing  else  seems  worth  while,  mother^ 

The  pale,  sensitive  face  was  so  charged  with  emotion 
that  Mrs.  Gerry,  looking  down  at  it,  had  a  recurrence  of  the 
old  sharp  anxiety  concerning  her  daughter's  physical  wel- 
fare. She  did  not  speak,  for  she  was  afraid  that  she  could 
not  command  her  voice. 

In  spite  of  her  penetrative  love,  Mrs.  Gerry  had  not  sus- 
pected how  liable  Salome  was  to  this  outbreak.  She  had 
come  to  believe  that  the  girl  had  been  calm,  or  at  least  that 
she  was  becoming  calm  ;  "  reconciled  "  was  the  word  Mrs. 
Gerry  used  in  thinking  of  the  matter.  It  seemed  to  her  that 
she  was  thinking  of  the  subject  continually.  Sometimes 
she  felt  that  her  judgment  was  no  longer  reliable.  She  sat 
there  now  with  her  hands  on  her  daughter's  shoulders,  feel- 
ing as  if  she  were  brought  face  to  face  afresh  with  a  diffi- 
culty with  which  she  could  not  grapple. 

It  was  a  new  thing  for  Mrs.  Gerry  to  feel  helpless.  She 
sat  silent,  grave,  not  trying  to  respond  in  words  to  anything 
Salome  had  said.  She  foresaw  suffering  and  trouble.  But 
she  knew  that  the  girl  was  looking  forward  now  to  hap- 
piness—  looking  forward  inconsistently,  groundlessly,  the 
mother  thought. 

"Haven't  you  anything  to  say  to  me,  mother?"  Salome 
asked  this  after  the  silence  had  continued  for  many  mo- 
ments. "  You  think  that  I  ought  not  to  have  written." 


26  OUT  OF  STEP 

Mrs.  Gerry  sat  upright. 

"I  think  that  you  are  a  human  being,  and  must  take 
matters  into  your  own  hands.  It  seems  to  me  that  you 
sent  Mr.  Moore  away  under  the  same  conditions  which  are 
in  force  now  that  you  recall  him." 

Salome  flung  out  her  hands.  "  Yes,  yes !"  she  exclaimed. 
"  But  I  can  bear  it  no  longer.  I  have  been  too  scrupulous. 
I  said  to  myself  I  would  be  a  New-England  girl.  I  would 
act  like  your  daughter.  But  I  give  all  that  up  " — another 
gesture  of  the  hands  —  "yes,  I  am  going  to  do  with  my 
life  as  I  will,  as  you  say.  I  thrust  the  past  behind  me.  He 
knows  what  I  am — what  I  have  done.  He  begged  me  to 
let  him  know  if  I  changed  my  mind.  But  I  told  him  he 
must  expect  nothing — nothing." 

"  Salome,  listen  to  me,"  said  Mrs.  Gerry,  with  a  compell- 
ing emphasis  in  her  voice ;  f when  a  man  absolutely  ex- 
pects nothing,  he  gives  up  hoping — he  looks  elsewhere." 

"  What  is  that  you  are  saying  ?" 

Salome  had  risen.  She  now  turned  quickly  as  she  spoke, 
and  there  was  a  shrillness  in  her  tones. 

"  Oh,  my  child !"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Gerry,  "  don't  hope  too 
much." 

"  But  I  cannot  hope  too  much.  When  Mr.  Moore  came 
that  last  time  to  see  me  I  knew  his  heart,  his  very  heart. 
Oh  no,  I  cannot  hope  too  much." 

Mrs.  Gerry's  lips  closed  in  a  way  that  showed  that  she 
would  say  no  more. 

Salome  continued  moving  abont  the  room  in  a  restless 
manner,  her  face  glowing,  her  eyes  dilated  and  full  of  light. 
At  last  she  was  ready  for  bed.  But  she  did  not  think  of 
sleeping.  She  put  her  hand  under  her  cheek  and  lay  look- 
ing out  into  the  dusk  of  the  summer  night,  listening  with 
far-away  thoughts  to  the  sounds  made  by  the  insects. 

She  was  following  her  letter  to  Moore,  going  every  step 
of  the  way  with  it  until  the  moment  when  it  came  into  the 
young  man's  hands.  She  saw  him  read  it — the  one  line 
which  was  all  she  had  written;  she  imagined  the  look 


EXPECTING  27 

which  would  come  into  his  face  —  she  knew  his  face  so 
well.  How  ignorant  her  mother  was  to  think  it  necessary 
to  warn  her  against  disappointment!  Did  she  not  know 
Randolph  Moore  better  than  any  one  else  could  possibly 
know  him? 

She  and  her  mother  were  very  busy  during  the  next  few 
days  trying  to  get  settled  in  the  little  house  they  had  hired. 
Salome  worked  like  one  for  whom  everything  was  glorified. 
She  kept  count  of  the  hours  with  eager  accuracy. 

When  the  time  came  that  her  letter  should  reach  Moore, 
the  subtle  excitement  upon  her  was  almost  unbearable. 
But  she  kept  telling  herself  that  he  might  be  away — he  was 
travelling  so  much. 

"  S'lome  simps  to  be  a  good  deal  more  facultied  'n  she 
used  to  be,  somehow,"  remarked  Mrs.  Scudder  to  Mrs. 
Gerry,  as  the  two  women  were  laying  a  straw  matting  in  the 
very  small  south  chamber  of  the  Ledge  house. 

Both  Mrs.  Scudder  and  her  daughter  Nely  were  giving 
up  a  day  to  helping  the  Gerrys  to  get  settled  in  their  new 
home.  This  was  done  at  Nely's  instigation,  and  the  school- 
girl was  at  this  moment  scrubbing  the  kitchen  floor,  and 
occasionally  lifting  herself  upright  on  her  knees  to  look  at 
Salome,  who  was  washing  a  window  in  the  same  room. 

Suddenly  Nely  gave  a  short  laugh.  Salome  turned  with 
a  question  in  her  movement. 

"  Ain't  it  funny  ?"  exclaimed  Nely,  and  she  went  on 
laughing.  Then  in  a  moment  she  continued :  "  To  think 
that  anybody  should  ever  say  you'd  been  disappointed, 
Salome  Gerry.  If  'twas  any  other  girl  in  the  world  I 
shouldn't  think  it  so  strange." 

"  I've  just  as  good  a  right  to  be  disappointed  as  any 
one,"  was  the  response.  And  then  Salome's  laugh  was 
joined  to  her  companion's. 

"Jest  hear  urn,"  said  Mrs.  Scudder,  on  the  floor  above. 
And  she  added  that  it  really  did  seem  wonderful  that  Sa- 
lome could  wash  winders  jest  like  any  other  girl.  'N'  she  had 
as  much  faculty  about  it  as  she,  Mrs.  Scudder,  had  herself. 


2g  OUT  OF   STEP 

"  She  even  borrowed  my  wooden  skewer  't  I  saved  from 
our  last  roastin'  piece  of  meat,  to  dig  out  the  corners  with. 
Now,  I  do  think  it's  a  mighty  good  sign  as  to  what  kind  of 
a  house-keeper  you  be,  if  you  use  them  wooden  skewers  to 
dig  out  corners  in  winder -sashes.  There  ain't  nothin'  like 
them  skewers.  They  go  into  the  corners,  V  yet  they  don't 
scratch.  I  ain't  a  mite  afraid  to  use  urn  on  my  parlor 
winders.  Yes,"  reflectively  pausing,  with  a  hammer  in  her 
hand,  "  skewers  is  a  real  good  sign." 

Mrs.  Gerry  was  measuring  round  a  beam  and  trying  to 
fit  the  matting.  She  remarked  explanatorily  that  Salome's 
having  been  sick  so  much  when  she  was  growing  up  had 
made  a  difference  in  her  knowing  how  to  do  things.  But 
she  had  always  been  willing  to  work.  "  I  don't  know  what 
I  should  have  done  without  her." 

Mrs.  Gerry's  firm  voice  was  not  quite  so  firm  in  this  sen- 
tence. She  was  thinking  of  the  heartaches  and  the  anxie- 
ties her  daughter  had  brought  her,  and  that  she  could  bear 
them  all  for  the  sake  of  the  love  Salome  showed  her. 

"  Of  course  you  don't,"  responded  Mrs.  Scudder's  gentle, 
comforting  tones.  "  I  do  believe  this  mattin'  's  goin'  to 
run  short  somehow.  If  there  is  a  bare  place,  le's  have  it 
under  the  bed.  Jest  hear  Nely  go  on,"  as  Nely's  laugh 
sounded  up  the  open  stairway.  "  She's  jest  kinder  be- 
witched with  your  S'lome.  I  do  believe  she'd  do  anything 
in  the  world  for  her." 

Hearing  those  words,  Mrs.  Gerry  suddenly  paused  in  her 
work.  She  turned  her  face  aside,  lest  there  should  be  some 
visible  change  upon  it. 

She  had  not  thought  of  that — of  Salome's  influence. 
How  strange  that  she  had  not  thought  of  that !  And  the 
girl  was  to  be  assistant  at  the  high-school,  and  be  associ- 
ated with  young  people  who  would  look  up  to  her  more  or 
less.  That  personal  charm  which  belonged  to  her  daughter 
would  have  its  effect.  But  underlying  that  charm  there 
should  be  what  Mrs.  Gerry  had  always  called  "  principle." 
There  was  nothing  else  really  worth  while.  And  Salome 


EXPECTING  29 

had  not  principle.  She  had  tenderness,  kindness,  love,  a 
strong  individual  attraction.  This  latter  her  mother  could 
not  feel  as  others  might  feel  it. 

Mrs.  Gerry  rose  to  her  feet,  leaving  the  matting  unfitted. 
She  did  not  know  why  she  rose.  She  only  knew  that  she 
was  possessed  with  a  desire  to  hinder  in  some  way  some- 
thing which  Salome  might  do  if  she  were  with  young  peo- 
ple. How  long  would,  it  be  before  Nely  Scudder,  for  in- 
stance, began  to  suspect  that  Salome  did  not  have  the 
necessary  regard  for  the  truth  for  its  own  sake  ?  Not  that 
Salome  ever  told  glaring  lies,  or  not  often.  But  she  would 
sometimes  slide  over  things  in  what  seemed  to  her  mother 
the  most  unaccountable,  reprehensible  way.  Not  to  shield 
herself,  but  to  make  things  pleasanter. 

Not  until  this  moment  had  Mrs.  Gerry  realized  the  ter- 
rifying fact  that  she  herself  was  becoming  less  and  less 
horrified  by  this  proclivity  of  Salome's.  Living  day  after 
day  with  one  so  dear  to  her  as  this  only  child,  with  one 
so  lovable  and  so  winning,  the  enormity  of  the  way  Sa- 
lome had  of  dealing  with  truth  did  not  impress  her  with 
such  insistently  vital  force  as  it  ought. 

The  mother  was  sure  of  that  now.  She  ought  not  to  have 
allowed  Salome  to  take  that  position  at  the  high-school.  It 
was  true  that  she  had  not  been  consulted  by  her  daughter, 
who  had  acted  suddenly  and  hurriedly  in  the  matter. 

Mrs.  Gerry's  conscience  sprang  up  alert  and  alarmed. 

"  What's  the  matter  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Scudder,  looking  up 
and  speaking  with  a  tack  in  her  mouth.  "  Did  you  pound 
your  thumb  ?  I  'most  always  pound  my  thumb  'fore  I  git 
a  carpet  down,  though  mattin'  ain't  so  hard  on  thumbs 
quite." 

Mrs.  Gerry  immediately  crouched  again  into  position  to 
resume  her  work.  She  said  that  she  had  been  thus  far 
saved  from  pounding  herself.  And  she  explained  no 
further. 

Below -stairs,  while  Salome  twisted  her  cleaning -cloth 
about  the  point  of  her  skewer,  Nely  again  asked  her  com- 


3° 


OUT   OF   STEP 


panion  if  she  ever  really  had  been  disappointed.  In  Nely's 
eyes  to  be  disappointed  must  be  an  experience  which,  though 
perhaps  painful,  must  still  be  something  to  distinguish  one 
for  all  one's  remaining  life.  /Next  to  a  prosperous  love  an 
unprosperous  love  would  be  the  thing  to  know.^ 

"  And  did  you  really  have  a  beau  down  there  in  Florida, 
Salome  ?" 

The  elder  girl  flashed  a  quick  look  at  Nely,  who  was  sit- 
ting back  on  her  heels  with  her  mop  dripping  in  her  hands. 

"  It  isn't  good  taste  to  talk  about  one's  lovers — not  that  I 
had  lovers,"  answered  Salome. 

"  Oh,  dear !"  cried  Nely,  slapping  her  mop  on  the  floor. 
"  But  I  do  wish  you'd  tell  me  if  you  were  crossed  in  love. 
Sometimes  I  just  almost  wish  I  could  be  crossed  in  love.  It 
must  make  one  feel  so  important.  Don't  you  think  so  ?  To 
be  'round  with  a  long  face,  you  know,  and  go  into  corners 
and  weep ;  and  to  pine  away  just  as  if  you  were  eating  slate- 
pencils  and  cloves,  but  knowing  all  the  time  it  wasn't  slate- 
pencils  and  cloves,  but  only  just  love.  I  declare,  it  must  be 
splendid.  Only  just  before  I  really  died  I  should  want  to 
take  a  turn  and  get  well,  and  curl  up  my  lip  in  scorn  when 
my  beau  came  crawling  after  me  to  make  it  all  up.  I 
should  certainly  want  him  to  come  crawling  on  his  mar- 
row-bones finally,  so  I  could  scorn  him.  Oh,  wouldn't  it 
be  fun !" 

Nely  bent  over,  and  began  scrubbing  with  great  force. 
She  had  a  very  uncertain  feeling  as  to  whether  Salome  had 
been  crossed  in  love  or  not.  She  thought  not,  however,  for 
she  could  not  conceive  that  any  young  man  should  not  be 
willing  to  give  his  eyes  for  her  favor. 

The  house-cleaning  below-stairs  went  on  with  unneces- 
sary fury  for  some  time. 

Above,  the  matting  was  at  last  spread  with  an  accompani- 
ment of  gentle,  amiable  talk  on  Mrs.  Scudder's,  and  a  seri- 
ous silence  on  Mrs.  Gerry's  part. 

On  the  following  Monday,  Salome  went  to  her  school  du- 
ties. She  gayly  kissed  her  mother,  who  followed  her  into 


EXPECTING  31 

the  dooryard,  and  watched  her  walking  away  with  that 
swift,  easy  gait  which  was  characteristic  of  her,  now  she 
was  well. 

Since  Moore  had  not  come  immediately,  Salome  knew 
that  he  was  on  one  of  his  business  trips,  and  she  could 
not  know  when  to  expect  him — or,  rather,  she  could  not 
help  expecting  him  all  the  time.  But  she  said  nothing 
more  about  him.  She  went  every  morning  down  the  soli- 
tary high-road  towards  the  village.  And  her  mother  said 
nothing.  She  could  not  help  going  to  the  end  of  the  gar- 
den which  overlooked  the  steep  hill  along  which  her  daugh- 
ter descended  on  her  way  to  her  work.  She  would  watch 
the  girl  there,  furtively  watch,  lest  Salome  might  turn  round 
and  see  her,  and  imagine  that  she  was  anxious. 

And  as  the  days  went  on  until  they  became  weeks,  Mrs. 
Gerry  became  so  anxious  that  she  hardly  dared  to  look 
fully  at  the  girl's  face.  There  grew  up  a  significant  silence 
between  the  two — a  silence  on  all  topics  but  the  most  triv- 
ial ones.  They  would  talk  for  many  minutes  on  the  advisa- 
bility of  having  eggs  or  corned-beef  for  dinner  the  next  day, 
or  whether  Salome  should  take  her  umbrella  or  not.  And 
when  a  friend  from  the  old  neighborhood  toiled  up  the  hill 
to  see  them,  the  visit  was  material  for  almost  never-ending 
conversation. 

Mrs.  Gerry's  forehead  had  a  deep  line  down  the  middle 
of  it.  But  there  was  no  line  on  the  girl's  forehead.  She 
grew  serious  of  face,  and  there  came  a  thoughtful,  wonder- 
ing droop  to  the  corners  of  her  mouth.  And  the  clear  pale- 
ness of  her  skin  increased.  She  conversed  a  good  deal 
about  her  pupils  and  the  characteristics  of  a  few  to  whom 
she  felt  attached.  She  studied  algebra  in  the  little  time 
there  was  after  the  lamp  was  lighted,  when  the  long  twilight 
was  over.  She  continued  to  be  amiable.  She  looked  open- 
ly at  her  mother,  but  her  mother  avoided  her  glance  as  if 
she  had  something  to  conceal. 

A  bitterness  began  to  grow  in  Mrs.  Gerry's  heart.  Self- 
controlled  as  she  had  tried  to  be  all  her  life,  she  found  it 


32  OUT  OF  STEP 

now  strangely  difficult  for  her  to  maintain  her  usual  man- 
ner. When  her  daughter  was  at  school  Mrs.  Gerry  had 
times  in  the  day  when  she  would  walk  swiftly  along  the 
road  in  the  direction  of  the  railway  station,  two  miles  dis- 
tant. She  would  walk  until  she  came  to  where  the  road 
turned,  and  she  would  stand  there  looking  along  the  high- 
way, her  eyes  contracting,  the  frown  on  her  forehead  deep- 
ening. If  she  saw  any  of  the  townspeople  approaching  she 
would  walk  on  in  her  ordinary  prim,  straight  manner.  But 
when  she  was  alone  she  allowed  her  face  to  settle  directly 
into  that  expression  of  bitter,  painful  inquiry.  The  stern 
eyes  seemed  to  question  every  foot  of  that  road  that  led  to 
the  station.  But  nothing  had  thus  far  answered  those  stern 
questions.  The  warm  sunshine  fell  peacefully  on  the  soli- 
tary road.  When  the  crows  flew  over  it  the  woman  stand- 
ing there  recalled  those  times  in  Florida  when  Salome  had 
shrunk  from  the  sight  of  those  birds.  She  was  afraid  that 
she  also  was  growing  superstitious. 

It  was  the  end  of  the  fourth  week,  and  Moore  had  given 
no  word.  Already  the  hot  sun  and  the  intense  blue  heavens 
gave  token  that  the  meridian  of  the  summer  had  come,  that 
the  season  was  ripening,  and  that  some  time  it  would  fade. 

"  Even  if  he  had  been  in  Europe,  he  ought  by  this  time 
to  make  some  sign." 

Mrs.  Gerry,  in  this  fourth  week,  was  continually  saying 
these  words  to  herself  as  she  went  about  her  work,  or  when 
she  took  those  walks  to  the  corner  of  the  road  that  led  to 
the  station. 

She  did  not  notice  that  Salome  ever  looked  in  the  direc- 
tion of  that  corner. 

In  this  week  the  woman  rose  in  the  night,  and  moved 
noiselessly  to  the  door  of  her  daughter's  room,  which  the 
girl  kept  shut.  Formerly,  this  door  had  been  allowed  to 
remain  open. 

The  mother  would  stand  motionless,  her  white,  straight 
form  dimly  outlined. 

But  her  keen  ears  never  heard  any  sound  in  the  girl's 


EXPECTING  33 

room.  Once  Mrs.  Gerry  put  her  hand  softly  on  the  latch. 
She  felt  as  if  she  must  open  the  door  and  see  Salome.  But 
she  restrained  herself.  At  last  she  crept  back  to  her  bed 
again. 

Mrs.  Gerry  always  endeavored  not  to  bewail  what  had 
happened,  what  was  beyond  recall  in  the  past.  But  now 
she  could  not  help  exclaiming  many  times  a  day  in  her 
solitary  work  : 

"  If  she  only  had  not  written !  If  she  only  had  let  what 
is  gone  rest !  Now  how  can  she  bear  it  ?  How  can  she 
bear  it  ?  He  is  like  other  men.  He  has  consoled  himself, 
as  he  had  a  right  to  do.  Yes,  he  has  consoled  himself. 
That  makes  everything  simple.  Since  nothing  has  changed, 
Salome  should  not  have  written." 

These  words  repeated  themselves  so  many  times  in  Mrs. 
Gerry's  mind  that  she  almost  thought  she  was  possessed 
by  them.  She  was  impelled  to  say  them  to  Salome,  but  she 
would  not. 

Finally  it  was  to  the  two  women  who  so  loved  each  other 
as  if  they  were  living  in  an  exhausted  receiver,  where  they 
could  not  breathe  freely — at  least,  it  seemed  so  to  the  elder 
of  the  two.  And  it  was  ominous  of  she  knew  not  what  that 
Salome  should  choose  to  be  so  silent.  Of  course,  it  was  a 
phase  that  would  soon  pass. 

At  last,  in  the  fifth  week,  as  Mrs.  Gerry  was  saying,  "  Of 
course,  he  has  consoled  himself,"  she  looked  up  from  the 
dishes  she  was  washing — looked  through  the  little  window 
over  the  sink.  She  saw  Moore  coming  along  the  road  where 
she  had  so  often  walked  to  meet  him.  He  was  coming 
quickly,  and  yet  she  thought  there  was  no  eagerness  in  his 
aspect.  He  was  so  far  away  that  she  might  easily  have 
been  mistaken  as  to  his  identity.  But  she  knew  that  she 
was  not  mistaken. 

She  drew  her  hands  from  the  dish-water  and  wiped  them 
on  the  roller-towel,  her  eyes  fixed  all  the  time  upon  that 
figure  which  grew  more  and  more  familiar. 

It  was  in  vain  for  Mrs.  Gerry  to  condemn  herself  for 
3 


34 


OUT   OF    STEP 


being  so  excited.  There  was  nothing  left  for  her  but  Sa- 
lome and  Salome's  life,  and  she  felt  that  she  had  less 
strength  to  contend  with  unhappiness  and  loss  for  her 
daughter  than  she  had  had  when  unhappiness  and  loss  were 
possible  in  her  own  individual  destiny. 

But  the  woman  who  unclosed  the  door  in  response  to 
Moore's  knock  did  not  reveal  traces  of  excitement. 

The  moment  the  door  was  opened  the  young  man  me- 
chanically took  off  his  hat  and  stepped  into  the  little 
entry.  He  put  out  his  hand,  looking  with  some  entreaty  at 
his  companion. 

When  Mrs.  Gerry,  after  a  perceptible  hesitation,  put  her 
hand  in  his,  Moore  suddenly  bent  down  and  kissed  her 
cheek.  His  eyes  were  visibly  full  of  tears ;  but  the  tears 
did  not  fall,  and  they  were  gone  immediately. 

The  two  went  into  the  sitting-room,  which  seemed  con- 
fusedly to  Moore  not  much  larger  than  the  entry,  and  as  if 
he  could  not  move  in  it.  He  pushed  forward  a  chair,  and 
when  Mrs.  Gerry  had  seated  herself  he  continued  standing 
before  her. 

The  woman  did  not  know  why  she  should  have  expected 
that  Moore  should  be  changed  in  person.  Merely  the  pass- 
ing of  a  year  does  not  materially  alter  a  man  who  is  not 
yet  thirty. 

Directly  she  saw  him,  Mrs.  Gerry  felt  the  old  attraction 
come  to  the  front  again.  His  face  had  a  somewhat  thinner 
contour,  otherwise  it  was  just  the  same. 

It  appeared  not  to  be  easy  for  either  to  speak  at  first. 
There  was  an  air  of  expectancy  about  Moore.  He  stood  at 
attention.  While  he  now  looked  at  his  companion,  he  yet 
seemed  not  to  see  her. 

"  She  is  well?"  he  asked,  finally. 

"Yes." 

He  threw  back  his  shoulders  and  took  a  long  breath. 

"  I  was  afraid,"  he  began,  and  then  hesitated — "  I  was 
afraid  she  might  be  ill." 

Mrs.  Gerry  shook  her  head. 


EXPECTING  35 

"  Where  is  she  ?" 

Moore's  air  of  attention  increased,  and  it  was  plain  that 
he  was  trying  to  conceal  the  evidence  of  the  intensity  of  his 
interest. 

"  She  is  at  school.     She  is  assistant." 

Mrs.  Gerry  was  glad  that  she  could  be  allowed  a  chance 
to  speak  commonplace  words. 

"  She  is  able  to  work?"  in  surprise. 

"  Certainly  ;  she  is- well,"  Mrs.  Gerry  answered. 

Moore  made  a  slight  movement,  as  if  he  would  walk 
across  the  room ;  but  he  restrained  the  impulse,  and  re- 
mained standing  in  the  same  position. 

Afterwards  Mrs.  Gerry,  in  thinking  of  him,  wondered  how 
any  one  so  without  motion  could  yet  give  so  vivid  an  im- 
pression of  intense  life.  There  was  no  longer  any  lack  of 
eagerness  about  him.  But  Mrs.  Gerry  could  not  tell  why 
the  eagerness  was,  as  it  were,  under  protest. 

"  She  wrote  to  me,"  suddenly  said  the  young  man.  "  You 
knew  it?" 

"  Yes." 

Mrs.  Gerry  wished  to, say  that  it  was  some  time  ago  that 
Salome  had  written;  but  she  remained  silent.  It  was  Moore 
himself  who  now  made  the  remark  that  he  had  received  the 
note  nearly  five  weeks  ago. 

Having  said  this,  he  no  longer  tried  to  be  quiet.  He 
turned  and  walked  to  the  window.  He  gazed  through  it  in 
silence  before  he  asked  : 

"  When  will  she  come  ?" 

There  was  something  in  Moore's  voice  as  he  put  that 
question  that  made  Mrs.  Gerry  suddenly  start  from  her 
chair  and  go  to  his  side.  He  turned,  and  the  two  looked 
at  each  other.  The  woman  found  it  hard  to  meet  the  pas- 
sionate wistfulness  in  the  man's  eyes. 

"  When  will  she  come  ?"  he  presently  repeated. 

"  Not  for  three  hours  yet — not  until  the  afternoon  session 
is  over;  and  often  she  stays  with  some  of  the  scholars." 

Moore  took  out  his  watch  as  he  heard  this  answer. 


36  OUT   OF   STEP 

"  It  would  not  do  for  me  to  go  to  the  school  ?"  he  asked. 

"Oh  no.  You  see,  her  time  is  not  her  own  during  the 
session." 

"  And  I  must  wait  three  hours  ?" 

Mrs.  Gerry  nodded.  She  had  in  mind  the  fact  that  he 
had  already  waited  a  good  many  days  since  he  had  received 
Salome's  note.  To  wait  still  longer  might  be  possible, 
then.  She  did  not  put  this  thought  in  words,  but  Moore 
exclaimed : 

"  I  know  what  you  are  thinking,  and  I  can't  blame  you. 
But  I  have  had  a  fight — yes,  I  have  had  a  fight." 

He  turned  abruptly  away  again,  and  renewed  his  restless 
movements  about  the  room.  His  face  was  gradually  be- 
coming deeply  flushed. 

Mrs.  Gerry  did  not  ask  for  any  particulars  concerning  the 
struggle  he  had  just  mentioned.  But  she  was  so  deeply  in- 
terested that  it  was  difficult  not  to  show  that  interest.  She 
had  resumed  her  seat  when  Moore  had  begun  to  walk. 
Her  eyes  followed  him  persistently.  It  was  so  strange  to 
see  him  again — so  strange,  and  yet  his  presence  immediate- 
ly seemed  so  familiar  and  so  dear.  Mrs.  Gerry  was  obliged 
to  own  that  his  presence  was  very  dear  to  her.  In  spite  of 
the  keen  perplexity  of  the  moment,  the  woman  was  con- 
scious of  that  sense  of  comfort  and  pleasure  which  she  had 
known  before  when  with  Moore.  She  would  have  said  that 
it  did  her  heart  good  to  be  near  him. 

He  came  back  and  gazed  down  at  her  intently. 

"Tell  me,"  he  suddenly  broke  out,  "has  she  suffered?" 

Mrs.  Gerry  hesitated.  Her  instinct  sprang  up  to  shield 
her  daughter.  Still,  why  shield  her  from  this  man  who 
loved  her  and  had  come  back  to  her  ? 

"  Why  don't  you  speak  ?"  cried  Moore.  "  Are  you  afraid 
of  hurting  me  ?  Perhaps  she  has  not  cared  so  very  much, 
after  all.  I  wish  you  would  tell  me." 

"  She  must  have  cared,  since  she  has  written  to  you," 
said  the  mother.  "  But  she  has  been  very  brave — wonder- 
fully brave." 


EXPECTING  37 

"  Well,  then,"  with  an  indescribable  movement  of  the 
head  and  shoulders,  "  that  is  more  than  I  can  say.  I 
haven't  been  brave.  I've  been  a  miserable  coward.  I  have 
thought  a  thousand  times  that  life  was  not  worth  the  living 
without  her.  I  have  resisted  until  resistance  was  loathsome 
to  me.  How  I  have  hated  the  weeks  and  the  months  be- 
cause I  couldn't  hope  that  they  would  bring  me  to  her! 
But  I  didn't  seek  her.  I  obeyed  her.  I  tell  you,  Mrs. 
Gerry,  a  man  is  a  fool  who  obeys  a  woman  when  she  tells 
him  to  keep  away  from  her.  But  Salome  was  so  earnest ; 
she  took  it  as  an  affair  of  morality,  and  I  thought  I  must 
do  as  she  said.  I  wish  I  had  come  back  to  her  a  hundred 
times  :  anything  rather  than  to  have  done  as  I  have  done. 
You  see,  a  man  has  to  live  all  his  life  just  to  find  out  how 
to  live." 

"  What  have  you  done  ?"  Mrs.  Gerry  asked  this  the 
instant  there  was  a  break  in  her  companion's  torrent  of 
words. 

Moore  looked  at  her  in  silence.  Twice  he  appeared  to 
be  about  to  burst  forth  into  speech  again,  but  he  did  not. 
At  last  he  said,  with  comparative  calmness : 

"  What  have  I  done  ?  I  have  gone  right  on  loving  Sa- 
lome. You  surely  can  forgive  me  for  doing  that,  can't 
you?" 

He  looked  at  his  watch  again.  He  went  to  the  window 
and  gazed  out  over  the  fields. 

"  It's  a  long  time  to  wait,"  he  said,  as  if  speaking  to  him- 
self. Then  presently  he  added  that  he  would  stroll  about 
the  country.  He  would  meet  Salome  when  she  came  from 
school.  Which  way  should  he  go  ? 

Having  received  his  instructions,  he  left  the  house.  Mrs. 
Gerry  watched  him  until  he  disappeared  in  the  birch  thick- 
et of  an  adjoining  field.  Then  she  patiently  returned  to 
her  housework,  conscious  of  a  dim  kind  of  thankfulness 
that  she  had  work  to  do  and  strength  with  which  to  do  it. 
But  she  was  not  able  to  resist  the  temptation  to  look 
repeatedly  down  the  hill  towards  the  school-house,  and  to 


38  OUT  OF  STEP 

look  and  look  long  before  it  was  time  for  the  school  to 
close. 

"How  childish  I  am!"  she  exclaimed  aloud,  on  every 
visit  to  the  end  of  the  garden.  But  within  five  minutes  she 
would  repeat  that  visit. 

Once  as  she  stood  there  a  light  open  buggy,  drawn  by  a 
swift,  powerful  horse,  came  rapidly  along.  The  animal  was 
pulled  in  suddenly.  There  was  only  one  occupant  of  the 
carriage — Walter  Redd.  At  the  first  glance  at  him  Mrs. 
Gerry  almost  thought  that  he  had  been  drinking ;  his  face 
was  a  dark  crimson,  his  eyes  having  a  red  look  in  them. 

He  rested  the  hand  that  held  the  reins  on  one  knee  and 
spoke  in  his  usual  fashion. 

"  Did  you  know  Moore  was  'round  here  ?"  he  asked. 

Mrs.  Gerry  nodded.  She  had  a  certain  sense  of  fear 
upon  her,  like  bodily  fear.  She  thought  it  was  curious  that 
she  should  at  that  moment  recall  the  newspaper  paragraphs 
of  murders  in  lonely  places. 

"  Did  Salome  expect  him  ?"  was  Redd's  next  question. 
It  was  very  unlike  himself  that  Redd  did  not  wait  for  any 
reply  to  that  inquiry.  He  went  on  directly :  "  I  don't 
think  it  '11  be  very  good  for  that  fellow  if  he  makes  any 
more  trouble  for  Salome." 

"  But,  Walter,"  eagerly  began  Mrs.  Gerry,  "  don't  you  know 
I  told  you  it  wasn't  Moore's  fault  ?  And  it's  true." 

"I  know  you  told  me  so.  Of  course  you'll  shield  him. 
There's  something  about  him  that  took  me  in,  too.  I  don't 
expect  but  what  you  think  it  wasn't  his  fault.  But  I  wish 
he'd  kept  away  from  here.  I  do  think  that  Salome  might 
have  kind  of  settled  down  and  got  reconciled.  And  here 
he  comes  again.  By  George,  I  wish  he  hadn't  come !" 

Redd  did  not  raise  his  voice,  but  he  spoke  more  and 
more  rapidly.  He  did  not  wait  for  any  reply.  He  shook 
the  lines  on  the  horse's  back.  The  animal  sprang  forward. 

"  Walter  !  Walter  !"  cried  Mrs.  Gerry. 

But  Redd  apparently  did  not  hear.  He  did  not  turn  his 
head. 


Ill 

"WHY   DID   YOU   WAIT?" 

MOORE,  as  he  had  walked  up  frrfm  the  station,  had 
seen  the  big  horse  coming  along  the  road.  It  had  ap- 
proached swiftly,  and  the  driver  of  it,  sitting  alone  in  the 
carriage,  had  stared  hard  at  the  man  walking  so  fast.  To 
Moore  that  man's  face  was  familiar,  yet  at  the  moment  he 
could  not  quite  place  it  in  his  mind.  And  why  was  there 
something  so  baleful  in  it  ? 

When  the  horse  and  wagon  had  gone  on,  and  the  hot, 
dusty  highway  was  solitary  again,  save  for  his  own  figure, 
Moore  exclaimed : 

"  Why,  it  was  Redd  !"  And  then  he  had  immediately 
forgotten  Redd.  He  had  something  far  nearer  his  heart 
to  think  of. 

Now  when  he  had  left  Mrs.  Gerry,  he  went  as  hurriedly 
as  if  he  had  not  almost  three  hours  to  kill  before  he  could 
hope  to  see  Salome.  He  pushed  through  the  birch  thick- 
et, and  never  stopped  in  his  walk  until  he  came  to  another 
road  which  went  curving  through  a  pine  wood. 

His  face  was  steaming  with  perspiration.  He  took  off 
his  hat  and  tried  to  remain  quietly  sitting  by  the  wayside. 
He  leaned  back  against  a  tree,  and  gazed  down  the  dim, 
secluded  highway.  He  thought  it  was  beautiful.  He  said 
aloud  that  it  was  beautiful.  But  he  knew  that  he  cared 
nothing  at  all  for  it.  He  looked  at  his  watch  again.  It 
had  taken  him  just  thirteen  minutes  to  come  here.  He 
,  supposed  that  the  time  would  pass,  since  time  always  did 
pass  —  if  you  could  only  endure  it.  He  rose  impatiently 
and  crowded  his  hat  down  upon  his  head. 

There  was  some  one  turning  the  curve  far  along  in  the 


40  OUT  OF   STEP 

gloom  of  the  pine-trees.  It  was  a  woman,  too.  It  was  a 
young  girl. 

Moore's  face  suddenly  grew  pale  from  the  furious  beat  of 
his  pulses.  He  began  walking  quickly.  For  some  reason 
Salome  might  have  left  school  earlier.  The  two  drew  near- 
er each  other.  It  was  Salome. 

She  suddenly  stood  still.  He  could  see  her  hands  hang- 
ing clasped  tightly  in  front  of  her.  He  could  see  those 
hands  and  her  white  face,  and  yet  it  seemed  to  him  that 
there  was  something  over  his  eyes.  And  yet  in  his  haste 
he  stumbled,  and  it  took  him  so  long  to  reach  her  that  he 
felt  as  if  he  were  in  a  dream. 

But  he  did  reach  her.  He  had  her  in  his  arms,  and  he 
looked  down  at  her  face  on  his  shoulder.  Why  should 
either  of  them  speak  ? 

After  a  while  the  two  were  walking  slowly  along  under 
the  trees.  Moore  was  still  holding  his  companion  closely. 
He  had  said  : 

"  I  had  to  come." 

She  had  looked  up  at  him  and  answered,  softly,  "  Yes,  of 
course  you  would  come." 

And  then  there  was  a  long  silence  while  they  walked  aim- 
lessly, and  looked  at  each  other. 

Salome  had  thought  that  when  he  came  she  should  ask 

him  many  questions,  she  should  tell  him  many  things ;  but 

now  that  he  had  come  she  felt  as  if  she  had  no  speech. 

,  And  what  were  mere  words,  now  that  he  was  with  her  ? 

'  There  was  no  fact  in  all  the  world  but  the  fact  that  he  had 

come  to  her. 

In  this  first  moment  there  was  no  shrinking,  no  maidenly 
self-consciousness  in  the  serious,  full  gaze  that  met  his. 
It  was  her  soul  meeting  his  in  his  eyes. 

It  was  Moore's  face  which  suddenly  changed  in  some  in- 
describable way.  There  was  still  the  rapture  of  the  meet- 
ing in  it.  But  there  was  something  else  in  it — a  memory,  a 
cloud  came  to  it.  Whatever  it  was  it  seemed  intolerable  to 
him.  Before  she  could  speak  he  exclaimed  : 


"  WHY   DID    YOU    WAIT  ?"  41 

"  Oh,  why  didn't  you  write  me  that  line  before  ?" 

"  Before  ?"  she  repeated,  in  a  puzzled  way.  "  But  it  is 
now  a  long  time  since  I  wrote.  You  have  been  away  ?" 

"  No ;  I  haven't  been  away.  I  received  your  note  the 
day  after  you  sent  it." 

Salome  looked  at  him  in  surprise.  She  moved  a  little 
away  from  him. 

"  You  were  kept  from  coming  ?"  she  asked. 

"Yes,"  he  answered,  hesitatingly,  "I  was  kept."  Then 
he  reached  forward  and  took  her  hands  tightly,  exclaiming 
again,  and  even  with  fierceness : 

"  Oh,  why  didn't  you  write  a  few  months  before  ?  I  tell 
you  it's  a  devilish  thing  you  have  done  by  waiting  all  this 
time  !" 

These  words  seemed  so  entirely  unlike  Moore,  and  the 
blackness  now  in  his  face  seemed  also  so  entirely  "unlike 
him,  that  Salome  stared  and  shrank  away. 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  she  said  at  last. 

She  tried  to  stand  erect  and  removed  from  him.  But  he 
would  not  let  her. 

"  You  ought  to  know  what  I  mean,"  he  went  on,  rapidly. 
"  You  told  me  there  was  no  hope.  Do  you  remember  those 
times  when  I  came  again  and  again  to  Augustine  to  plead 
with  you  ?  You  wouldn't  relent.  You  loved  me,  but  you 
were  hard  as  a  stone  in  your  resolution.  I  wanted  you. 
Since  I  knew  all  about  you,  and  you  were  not  deceiving  me, 
you  ought  to  have  married  me  then.  And  all  this  time  I 
have  tried  not  to  hope  that  you  would  send  me  word.  Fi- 
nally I  gave  up  hope  —  that  is,  I  gave  it  up  so  far  that  I 
had  made  up  my  mind  that  I'd  do  all  I  could  to  shut  out 
the  memory  of  you.  Salome,  do  you  understand  me  ?" 

He  turned  towards  her  with  a  mixture  of  passion  and 
regret  upon  his  face  that  had  a  terrible  effect  upon  her. 
She  was  stunned,  bewildered,  but  she  did  not  know  what  he 
meant. 

"  Do  you  understand  me  ?"  he  asked  again. 

"  No,  no,"  she  answered. 


42  OUT   OF    STEP 

"  Didn't  you  ever  think  that  there  comes  a  time  when  a 
man— or  a  woman,  I  suppose — gives  up  hoping,  and  tries 
to  put  away  every  thought  of  what  he  believes  he  cannot 
have  ?  Didn't  you  ever  think  that  ?" 

"  No,"  said  Salome,  again.  She  was  trying,  in  a  vague 
and  feeble  way,  to  recall  what  her  mother  had  said  to  her — 
was  it  upon  this  subject  ?  What  was  coming  ?  Had  her 
mother  been  right,  in  some  way?  Perhaps  people  who 
were  older  had  learned  some  things.  But  it  was  of  no  good 
if  they  had  —  of  no  good.  She  could  not  learn  by  the  ex- 
perience of  other  people. 

When  she  had  said  that  last  "  No  "  Moore  was  for  a  mo- 
ment unable  to  go  on.  He  thought  there  had  been  no 
words  made  fit  to  use  in  a  moment  like  this.  And  yet  how 
could  he  keep  silent  ? 

Salome  was  now  walking  apart  from  him.  She  had 
quietly  insisted  upon  withdrawing  herself. 

She  suddenly  turned  from  the  road  and  sat  down  on  a 
stone.  She  took  off  her  hat,  and  pressed  her  hands  for  an 
instant  to  her  head. 

Moore  stood  before  her,  gazing  down  at  her  with  the  look 
a  man  gives  to  that  which  is  inestimably  precious.  The 
black  look  was  gone  from  his  face.  But  there  was  still  in- 
tense suffering  there. 

At  first  she  did  not  glance  up  at  him. 

"  Oh,  Salome !"  he  said,  softly. 

She  looked  up  at  him  now.  He  appeared  to  resist  some- 
thing; then  he  threw  himself  down  on  his  knees  by  her  side 
and  put  his  arms  about  her.  She  was  frightened  by  the 
solemnity  in  his  face. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?"  she  asked,  after  a  pause,  during 
which  she  had  gazed  intently  at  him.  "  Why  don't  you  tell 
me  ?  You  say  I  ought  to  have  sent  for  you  before ;  but 
now  that  I  have  sent  for  you,  it  seems  all  wrong." 

"  Yes ;  it  is  too  late." 

When  he  had  said  this  Moore  suddenly  pressed  his  face 
against  the  girl's  shoulder.  She  felt  him  shudder  as  he  did 


"  WHY   DID    YOU    WAIT  ?"  43 

so.  She  wondered  why  she  was  so  calm.  She  thought  she 
ought  to  be  very  thankful  that  she  could  be  so  calm,  for 
surely  a  great,  a  terrible  trouble  was  upon  her.  It  had 
come  to  her,  since  Moore  could  say  that  "it  was  too  late." 

But  she  was  sure  that  he  loved  her.  She  was  sure  of 
that.  Then  how  could  it  be  too  late  ?  Could  it  be  that- 
Mere  Salome  sprang  away.  Moore  rose  quickly  to  his  feet. 

"  What !"  cried  the  girl,  "  is  it  Portia  Nunally  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  Moore. 

"Oh!" 

Having  uttered  that  cry,  Salome's  lips  closed  as  if  it 
could  not  be  worth  while  to  open  them  again.  She  picked 
up  her  hat  from  the  thick  carpet  of  pine-needles  upon 
which  she  had  thrown  it.  As  she  did  so  she  thought  that 
those  needles  would  be  a  good  place  upon  which  to  lay 
herself  down.  Would  it  not  be  a  pleasant  thing  to  do,  to  lie 
there  until  she  died  ?  Of  course,  she  should  die  in  a  very 
little  while.  Her  mother  would  be  very  sorry — her  mother 
would  miss  her  as  long  as  she  lived. 

Salome  turned  to  her  companion. 

"  I  will  go  home  now,"  she  said. 

She  placed  her  hat  on  her  head.     She  drew  her  hands' 
across  her  face  as  if  she  were  smoothing  away  something. 
She  could  not  be  grateful  enough  that  she  was  so  calm. 

She  began  to  walk  onward  quickly.  Moore  kept  by  her 
side.  They  had  gone  only  a  few  rods  when  it  seemed  as  if 
fire  suddenly  flashed  through  Salome's  brain.  But  her  face 
kept  its  pale  tint.  Only  her  eyes  were  red.  She  was  not 
calm  any  longer.  Perhaps  she  had  not  been  calm  at  all. 

"  Portia  Nunally !" 

She  pronounced  the  name  with  such  an  accent  that  the 
very  air  seemed  to  thrill  with  it.  Then  she  laughed  as 
she  went  on  : 

"I  was  very  stupid,  wasn't  I,  to  write  to  you ?  As  you 
[  say,  a  man — and  perhaps  a  woman  also— gives  up  hope 
\  after  a  while.  A  man  tries  to  forget  suffering.  That's  the 
\way  to  do.  It  was  so  very  stupid  of  me  to  write  to  you. 


44 


OUT   OF   STEP 


And  how  strange  that  I  had  forgotten  Miss  Nunally  !  I 
did  not  forget  her  for  a  long  time.  She  is  not  a  woman  to 
be  forgotten.  But  when  I  knew  that  she  had  gone  to  Eu- 
rope with  Mrs.  Darrah,  I  did  forget  her.  I  thought  that 
she  was  occupying  herself  with  other  plans.  Oh,  Mr.  Moore, 
you  see  how  silly  I  have  been  !" 

Salome  pulled  a  little  silver  watch  from  her  belt  and 
looked  down  at  it,  wondering  as  she  did  so  why  her  eyes 
burned  in  that  way. 

"  Mr.  Moore,  what  time  does  your  train  go  ?"  she  asked. 

There  was  no  answer.  Moore  was  striding  on  with  his 
head  bent.  He  was  asking  himself  incessantly  one  question  : 

"  Why  didn't  I  wait  ?    Why  didn't  I  wait  ?" 

Then  he  told  himself  furiously  that  it  was  perfectly  nat- 
ural that  he  should  not  have  waited  any  longer  without  a 
shadow  of  hope.  But  since  he  loved  Salome,  why  marry 
at  all  if  he  could  not  marry  her? 

But  it  was  perfectly  natural,  perfectly  natural — with  vio- 
lent insistence  in  his  own  mind—that  he  should  seek  for 
some  consolation.  If  he  had  ever  thought  himself  to  be 
different  from  other  men,  he  could  now  assure  himself  that 
he  was  precisely  like  the  ordinary  human  being. 

"  Does  your  train  start  soon,  Mr.  Moore  ?" 

As  Salome  repeated  this  question,  the  young  man  turned 
towards  her. 

He  was  feeling  that  he  must  find  some  terrible  words  to 
throw  from  him  like  missiles.  If  he  could  not  find  them, 
how  could  he  speak?  What  an  accursed  imbecile  he  had 
been  in  that  he  had  obeyed  this  girl  and  kept  away  from  her! 
For  a  freak  she  had  forbidden  him  to  come.  Now  a  freak 
had  made  her  write  to  him  that  she  had  changed  her  mind. 
Of  course  she  had  changed  her  mind — and  changed  it  too 
late. 

"  I  don't  know  when  my  train  starts,"  he  at  last  made 
answer  to  her  question.     "  Are  you  in  a  hurry  for  me  to 
go?" 
"Yes." 


"  WHY   DID    YOU    WAIT  ?"  45 

She  stopped  in  her  walk.  Her  hands  were  pressed  on 
her  chest  in  the  gesture  she  had  learned  when  she  was 
subject  to  that  painful  oppression  there. 

"  Didn't  Miss  Nunally  go  to  Europe  ?"  she  asked. 

She  looked  like  one  who  is  impelled  to  press  a  knife  into 
a  wound. 

"  Yes,  she  went,"  was  the  answer. 

"  But  she  did  not  stay  ?"  went  on  Salome. 

"  No  ;  she  did  not  stay." 

"  You  have  seen  her  often  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"I  knew" — here  Salome  paused,  but  only  for  a  brief 
space.  She  began  again,  "  I  knew  that  she  loved  you — at 
least,  I  felt  sure  of  it." 

There  was  no  response  from  Moore.  He  also  had  stopped 
in  his  walk.  He  stood  looking  at  his  companion.  He 
heard  but  vaguely  the  name  of  Miss  Nunally.  He  was 
trying  to  overcome  his  tempestuous  and  unreasoning  anger 
— his  anger  at  fate,  at  God,  at  the  whole  universe.  Why 
should  he  be  made  to  suffer  so  ?  What  had  he  done  that 
this  agony  should  be  inflicted  upon  him  ? 

"  Mrs.  Darrah  has  written  to  me  a  few  times,"  said  Sa- 
lome. "  She  said  that  Portia  had  engaged  herself  to  a  man 
over  there  in  London — to  a  man  who  was  greatly  in  love 
with  her,  and  who  was  rich." 

"  Yes,"  said  Moore,  in  the  same  short  way. 

"  It  did  not  last,  then  ?"  questioned  Salome. 

"  No  ;  it  did  not  last." 

Salome  was  congratulating  herself  that  she  could  speak 
consecutive  sentences.  But  she  wished  that  her  eyes  did 
not  burn  so.  Since  Moore  was  going  to  marry  Portia,  of 
course  it  was  natural  that  she  should  show  some  interest. 
But  she  longed  for  Moore  to  go.  At  any  moment  it  might 
happen  that  she  would  lose  the  power  to  speak  consecutive 
sentences.  And  when  that  time  came  she  would  rather  be 
alone.  She  did  not  understand  why  she  should  for  a  breath 
feel  that  she  could  not  endure  the  excitement  upon  her,  and 


46  OUT  OF  STEP 

then  should  think  she  was  calm.  But  she  felt  that  Moore 
ought  to  go. 

She  glanced  up  at  him.  She  was  aware  immediately  that 
she  was  saying : 

"Perhaps  you  are  already  married?" 

She  thought  it  would  be  something  of  a  relief  if  he  should 
say  yes  to  that  question. 

"  No  ;  but  it  is  the  same  thing,  so  far  as  honor  is  con- 
cerned. I  am  to  be  married  next  week — next  Tuesday 
evening,  at  half-past  seven  o'clock.  Just  four  days  from 
now.  What  a  lucky  thing  it  was  that  you  should  send  me 
that  note,  Salome !" 

"  Does  Portia  know  I  sent  it  ?" 

"  No." 

"  Then  I  don't  see  why  it  cannot  be  the  same  as  if  I  had 
never  sent  it.  My  mother  knows,  but  that  changes  nothing. 
Let  it  be  as  if  I  had  not  written  it,  Mr.  Moore." 

"  Certainly  •  just  as  if  you  had  not  written  it.  How  easily 
you  solve  questions,  Salome  !" 

The  girl  glanced  up  at  him  again.  Then  she  made  a 
quick  movement  forward. 

"  Oh,  I  must  go  !  I  must  go !"  she  cried. 

She  hurried  on  along  the  dusty  road.  Moore  stood  watch- 
ing her.  He  was  trying  to  resolve  to  let  her  go.  Surely 
it  was  best  now  that  she  should  go.  What  more  had  he  to 
say  to  her?  Absolutely  nothing.  He  could  never  have 
anything  more  to  say  to  her  as  long  as  he  lived — not  if 
he  were  an  honorable  man.  Then  another  phase  of  honor 
came  before  him.  The  final  vow  had  not  been  spoken. 
Perhaps  when  Portia  understood  matters  she  would  release 
him.  He  had  been  greatly  attracted  to  Portia.  A  vision 
of  her  now  was  with  him :  she  was  captivating ;  she  never 
made  a  mistake;  she  never  grated  upon  his  mood;  she 
had  soothed  and  comforted  him — above  all,  she  had  con- 
vinced him  that  she  loved  him.  He  could  not  doubt  that 
she  loved  him.  ^There  was  her  power ;  there  had  been  her 
power  all  along. 


"WHY  DID  YOU  WAIT?"  47 

"  I  will  tell  her,"  he  thought.  Then  he  began  to  hope. 
He  wished  that  he  had  not  waited  so  long  since  he  had  re- 
ceived Salome's  note.  He  had  been  fighting  the  same  fight 
over  and  over  ever  since.  If  he  were  going  to  hold  to  his 
word,  the  one  way  to  do  was  to  write  to  Salome ;  the  one 
way  to  do  was  to  avoid  seeing  her.  That  potent  power  01 
personal  presence,  the  memory  of  which  unavoidably  fades 
somewhat  in  absence,  that  was  the  power  to  be  avoided) 
And  here  he  was  with  Salome  again,  and  the  first  moment 
had  proved  to  him  that  that  mysterious  force  which  drew 
him  to  her  was  strong  as  ever — nay,  it  was  stronger. 

He  had  been  gradually  building  up  a  shallow  belief  that 
he  could  be  happy  with  Miss  Nunally.  Miss  Nunally  had 
such  exquisite  tact ;  she  was  so  entertaining ;  so  audacious, 
yet  not  too  audacious.  And  she  loved  him! 

It  was  now  late  to  be  convinced  that  he  should  simply 
have  lived  on  without  trying  to  build  up  anything.  How 
could  he  know  that  the  first  impulse  of  one  who  has  lost 
the  best  is  to  try  and  put  something  else  in  its  place;  to 
pretend  that  something  else  is  best,  though  knowing  pite- 
ously  all  the  time  that  it  is  not. 

"  I  will  tell  her,"  he  now  said,  aloud. 

He  hastened  after  Salome. 

"  I  will  tell  her,"  he  said,  eagerly,  when  he  had  reached 
her  side. 

"  You  will  tell  her  ?" 

Salome  said  the  words  after  him.  She  did  not  under- 
stand what  he  meant.  She  hardly  thought  it  necessary  that 
she  should  understand.  There  was  one  fact  that  was  very 
plain  to  her. 

"  Yes,  I  will  tell  Portia,"  went  on  Moore,  quickly.  "  She 
will  know.  She  will  remember  that  I  have  loved  you  ever 
since  I  saw  you.  She  will  refuse  to  marry  me.  She  does 
not  know  how  I  have  been  thinking  of  you  always,  though  I 
have  tried  so  hard  to  forget.  I  suppose  she  believes  that  I 
have  forgotten." 

Salome  made  no  response  to  these  words.     She  had  re- 


48  OUT   OF    STEP 

sumed  her  walk,  going  forward  intently  as  if  her  one  object 
were  to  reach  the  end  of  the  wood.  She  was  thinking  that 
she  wished  she  could  be  at  home.  She  wanted  to  be  under 
the  roof  with  her  mother.  Her  mother  had  been  right. 

"I  am  going  to  explain  to  Portia,"  said  Moore,  again. 
"  Salome  !"  impetuously,  "  won't  you  say  anything  to  me  ? 
Don't  you  care  for  me  ?" 

He  realized,  as  soon  as  he  had  spoken  those  words,  that 
it  was  very  weak  to  put  such  questions.  But  the  sense  of 
being  defrauded,  cheated  out  of  happiness,  was  so  great  in 
his  mind  that  he  could  not  speak  as  he  ought.  He  was 
groping  confusedly  and  madly  after  the  love  that  he  felt 
was  his,  but  that  he  could  not  grasp  and  hold.  Still,  even 
in  this  confusion  he  was  conscious  of  a  dim  sense  that  he 
might  be  stronger,  more  manly. 

"  You  need  not  ask  me  if  I  care  for  you,"  said  Salome. 
She  slackened  her  pace,  turning  towards  her  companion. 
Her  face  and  attitude  brought  back  to  Moore  those  walks 
through  the  scrub  palmetto  in  Florida. 

"  Oh,  can't  we  be  happy  ?"  she  suddenly  cried  out.  "  Why 
should  it  be  wrong  to  be  happy  ?" 

The  entire  unexpectedness  of  this  exclamation,  the  sweet- 
ness of  it,  came  to  Moore  with  an  indescribable  effect.  But 
when  he  made  a  swift  movement  towards  her  she  put  up 
her  hands  and  shrank  away  from  him. 

"I  must  be  very  wicked,"  she  said,  brokenly— " very 
wicked  indeed.  Oh,  Mr.  Moore,  I  wish  you  would  go  away. 
Do  go !  I  have  been  trying  all  these  months  to  be  good. 
You  see  I  really  tried.  And  now  that  I  have  left  the  South, 
now  that  I  have  come  where  it  is  so  wicked  to  be  happy, 
and  where  everything  is  rigid  and  upright— oh,  don't  you 
see  how  I  must  have  fallen  to  be  able  to  send  you  that 
note  ?  All  at  once  I  could  not  hold  out  any  longer.  But 
it  isn't  of  any  use.  You  are  going  to  be  Portia's  husband. 
Mr.  Moore,  why  do  you  stay  here  ?  Haven't  I  told  you  that 
I  wanted  you  to  go  ?" 

Moore  shut  his  mouth  tightly. 


"  WHY    DID    YOU    WAIT  ?"  49 

"  Yes,  you  have  told  me  that,"  he  said.  "  Please  don't 
say  it  again.  It  won't  make  any  difference  if  you  do.  I 
shall  stay  with  you  every  moment  that  is  left  me.  I  tell 
you,"  he  cried  out  again,  "  it's  a  terrible  thing  you  have 
done  !  You  have  trampled  our  lives  under  your  feet  just 
for  a  whim.  You  sent  me  away.  I  knew  all  about  you. 
What  if  you  had  forged  ?  What  if  you  had  done  this  thing 
or  that  ?  Were  you  not  still  yourself  ?  Still  .the  woman  I 
love  ?  You  thought  I  couldn't  be  happy  with  you.  You 
said  you  were  afraid  you  were  not  upright.  God !  didn't 
you  know  I  loved  you  ?  Is  that  some  one  coming  ?" 

He  asked  this  last  question  in  an  angry  tone  as  a  figure 
turned  into  the  road  far  ahead  of  them. 

Salome  tried  to  look  along  the  road.  Though  there  were 
no  tears  in  her  eyes,  the  hot  cloud  still  over  them  prevented 
her  at  first  from  seeing  with  any  distinctness.  But  directly 
she  recognized  Nely  Scudder,  who  was  advancing  rapidly. 
Then,  as  Nely  saw  the  two  in  the  road,  she  slackened  her 
pace. 

Moore  felt  that  it  was  impossible  for  him  to  meet  any 
one  now.  And  he  perceived,  with  a  sense  of  intolerable 
injury,  that  Salome  was  relieved  at  sight  of  that  person 
coming. 

He  said  something  about  seeing  her  again — that  he  must 
see  her  again  ;  then  he  turned  and  hurried  away. 

Nely  Scudder  came  forward  hesitatingly.  She  was  alarmed 
at  sight  of  Salome's  face,  but  she  was  intensely  interested 
and  alert.  She  was  sure  that  here  was  something  roman- 
tic. She  had  never  been  sure  in  her  own  mind  as  to  wheth- 
er the  new  assistant  teacher  had  been  disappointed.  Nely 
thought  she  would  give  anything  to  know  whether  that  very 
handsome  and  "  stylish  "  young  man  was  Salome's  beau. 
And  had  they  been  quarrelling? 

But  she  could  not  ask. 

"You  look  awfully  !"  she  said  as  she  came  up,  trying  to 
put  on  an  expression  that  should  give  no  token  of  her  hav- 
ing seen  any  one  save  Salome.  But  she  found  she  could 

4 


50  OUT   OF   STEP 

not  quite  succeed  in  this,  so  she  gave  a  short  laugh,  and  re- 
marked that  she  hoped  she  had  not  frightened  anybody 
away,  and  she  was  going  right  along;  and  anybody  that 
thought  she  was  going  to  stay,  and  so  had  run  off,  might 
just  as  well  come  back. 

Having  spoken  thus,  Nely's  eyes  sought  Salome's  face 
again,  and  then  she  sprang  forward  crying,  distressfully : 

"  You  do  look  sick  !  Has  that  man  been  saying  anything 
disagreeable  ?  I  declare  I  just  hate  him  !" 

Salome  had  stood  trying  to  recall  her  power  to  speak. 
Now  she  sat  down  on  the  pine-needles.  She  motioned  to 
the  girl  to  sit  beside  her. 

Nely  flung  herself  down  at  her  side  and  began  to  cry. 

"  Oh,  what's  happened  ?"  she  asked,  tremulously.  Then 
she  shook  her  fist  in  the  air,  and  repeated  that  she  "hated 
him !"  In  the  bottom  of  her  heart  was  now  the  conviction 
that  Salome  had  been  disappointed;  how  nor  why  she  could 
not  imagine.  It  seemed  impossible,  too. 

"  I'll  kill  him  !"  she  said,  in  a  violent  whisper.  "  I'll  kill 
anybody  that  makes  you  look  like  that.  I  don't  believe  you 
have  any  idea  how  you  look,  Salome.  Why,  you  look  just 
awful !" 

Salome  placed  her  arm  about  Nely's  waist,  but  she  did 
not  speak.  It  did  not  occur  to  her  that  there  was  anything 
to  say.  She  was  aware  of  a  slight,  dim  sense  of  comfort 
in  this  contact  with  a  human  being  who  loved  her.  She 
knew  very  well  that  Nely  had  an  enthusiastic  affection  for 
her. 

"  Can't  you  speak  ?     Can't  you  speak  ever  again  ?" 

Nely  put  these  questions  in  the  most  anxious  manner. 
She  made  a  movement  to  rise,  saying  she  guessed  she 
would  go  for  a  doctor. 

She  was  pulled  back  again,  and  presently  she  felt  a  soft, 
cold  kiss  on  her  cheek.  And  Salome  said  : 

"  I  can  speak  well  enough.  But  let's  sit  here  quietly  for 
a  few  minutes.  I  will  put  my  head  on  your  shoulder  like 
this." 


"WHY    DID    YOU   WAIT?" 


51 


Nely  immediately  held  herself  strongly  in  her  position. 
She  had  a  certain  feeling  of  exultation  in  her  anxiety — ex- 
ultation because  she  was  allowed  to  sit  and  have  Salome's 
head  on  her  shoulder.  To  her  Salome  was  the  very  perfec- 
tion of  woman.  Mrs.  Scudder  often  told  her  daughter  that 
she  "did  wish  that  Nely  would  talk  of  something  'sides 
S'lome  Gerry.  Not  but  what  S'lome  Gerry  was  well  enough, 
but  she  s'posed  there  was  other  folks  in  the  world  jest  as 
good." 

Here  Nely  would  toss  her  head  and  reply : 

"Just  as  good?  I  don't  care  if  there  is.  \It  isn't  good- 
ness that  makes  you  love  anybodyj  But  she's  just  as  good 
as  she  can  be,  too.  She  isn't  like  folks  that  I've  seen  be- 
fore, that  are  so  uninteresting  that  you  can't  stand  it,  any- 
way. Do  you  s'pose,  mar,  it's  because  she  almost  had 
consumption  and  went  to  Florida  ?  Or  what  do  you  s'pose 
'tis  ?  If  I  thought  'twas  that,  I  d'  know  but  I'd  just  up  and 
have  consumption,  and  then  par  would  send  me  to  Florida ; 
and  then  maybe  I'd  begin  to  be  interesting." 

Here  Nely  would  laugh  shrilly.  Once  she  added,  with 
more  seriousness  than  her  mother  quite  liked : 

"  I  certainly  would  do  'most  anything  if  I  could  be  any- 
where near  as  interesting  as  Salome  Gerry." 

"  I  guess  you're  full  up  to  the  average,  Nely,"  responded 
Mrs.  Scudder,  proudly.  "  'N'  I  guess  S'lome  is  jest  what 
she  is  'thout  anything  to  do  with  Floridy.  She's  a  pleasant, 
pretty-lookin'  girl,  but  I  must  say  I  don't  see  nothin'  re- 
markable in  her." 

"  You  don't  ?  Well,  that's  the  queerest  thing  I  ever  did 
hear,"  said  Nely. 

It  was  on  one  of  these  occasions  that  Mrs.  Scudder  asked 
if  it  was  gen'rally  thought  that  S'lome  give  good  satisfaction 
as  assistant  at  the  high-school. 

Nely  took  the  ground  of  not  knowing  and  not  caring. 
She  said  that  it  was  against  any  person  not  to  like  Salome. 

"  Have  you  heard  anything  ?"  sharply. 

Mrs.  Scudder  said  she  hadn't  heard  anything  of  any  ac- 


5- 


OUT   OF    STEP 


count.  But  she  believed  Mis'  Hill  did  say  that  some  con- 
sidered that  S'lome  wasn't  quite  strict  enough  in  some 
things. 

"Pooh!"  retorted  Nely,  "who's  Mrs.  Hill,  any  way,  I 
should  like  to  know  ?" 

"  She's  a  real  good  woman,  Nely,"  was  the  reprimanding 
reply. 

"  I  don't  care  if  she  is.  She  hasn't  brains  enough  to  fill 
the  half  of  a  peanut  shell,"  said  the  girl. 

"  It  ain't  her  fault  if  she  'ain't,  and  nobody  wants  to  fill 
peanut  shells  with  brains.  You  shouldn't  talk  so,  Nely.  I 
s'pose,"  with  an  air  of  unmistakable  interest,  "you  'ain't 
never  heard  for  certain  whether  S'lome's  ben  disappointed 
or  not,  have  ye?" 

It  was  this  question,  often  repeated,  that  now  recurred 
to  the  girl  as  she  sat  under  the  pine-tree  with  Salome's 
head  resting  on  her  shoulder. 

Who  was  that  man  ?  Nely  had  never  seen  any  one  in  the 
least  like  him,  and  her  glimpse  of  him  had  been  tantaliz- 
ingly  brief.  Yes,  it  must  be  almost  a  positive  fact  that  Sa- 
lome had  a  love  affair,  and  it  did  not  seem  as  if  it  could  be 
just  like  other  girls  having  beaus  and  getting  married.  No, 
there  was  something  different  about  this. 

Nely  sat  in  perfect  stillness.  She  was  afraid  to.  breathe 
deeply  lest  she  should  disturb  her  companion.  If  only 
Salome  would  tell  her  something.  Nely  felt  within  her- 
self an  unlimited  capacity  for  keeping  secrets  and  for  sym- 
pathizing. Next  to  having  a  love  affair  of  her  own  would 
be  the  fortune  that  should  make  her  the  confidante  of 
the  love  affair  of  some  one  else.  And  it  really  seemed 
as  if  now  she  was  right  in  the  midst  of  something  as  good 
as  a  novel ;  only  she  felt  worse  than  any  novel  ever  made 
her  feel.  She  liked  a  good  cry  when  a  heroine  was  suffer- 
ing, but  some  way  this  was  different. 

She  tried  to  look  down  at  the  face  on  her  shoulder,  but 
she  could  not  see  it  without  moving  her  head,  and  she  was 
resolved  not  to  move 


"WHY  DID  YOU  WAIT?"  53 

She  was  somewhat  frightened  that  Salome  should  be  so 
very  still.  Again  that  wish  recurred  to  go  for  a  doctor. 

Nely  bore  it  as  long  as  she  could,  and  then  she  said 
"  Salome  !"  in  the  smallest  kind  of  a  whisper. 

"Yes,"  said  the  other  girl,  without  changing  her  po- 
sition. 

"  Oh,  do,  do  let  me  do  something  for  you !"  cried  Nely, 
in  an  agony  of  anxiety.  "  I  wish  you'd  just  move,  or  some- 
thing, won't  you  ?" 

Salome  raised  her  head.     She  smiled  at  her  companion. 

"  You  needn't  worry  about  me,"  she  said,  quietly. 

Nely  clasped  her  hands  tragically. 

"  Can't  I  help  you  ?"  she  asked,  with  such  a  wistful  em- 
phasis that  Salome  smiled  again. 

"  Why,  you  have  helped  me  by  just  sitting  beside  me  and 
being  still,"  she  said. 

"  Oh,  have  I  ?"  doubtfully. 

"  Yes,  indeed.  And  now  let's  go  home.  This  isn't  much 
of  a  half-holiday,  after  all,  is  it  ?  Where  were  you  going  ?" 

"  I  was  coming  of  an  errand  for  mother  over  to  your  house." 

"Well,  come  now." 

The  two  rose  and  began  walking  slowly  out  towards  the 
opening  in  the  wood. 

It  seemed  to  Nely  that  she  could  not  contain  her  sympa- 
thy nor  her  curiosity ;  but  the  latter  she  would  not  express, 
"not  if  she  died  for  it,"  she  told  herself.  She  tried  not  to 
let  her  eyes  wander  towards  Salome  ;  somehow  it  appeared 
dishonorable  for  her  to  try  to  pry  into  her  companion's  se- 
crets ;  but  in  spite  of  all  her  efforts  she  could  not  keep  her 
glance  from  going  with  humiliating  frequency  to  the  face 
near  her. 

She  was  rather  disappointed  that  Salome  did  not  wring 
her  hands ;  she  had  an  ill-suppressed  desire  also  that  Sa- 
lome should  tear  her  hair.  Surely  that  was  the  way  a  real 
heroine  should  do  under  such  conditions. 

Having  had  these  thoughts,  Nely  had  sense  enough  to  be 
ashamed  of  them,  though  she  could  not  put  them  quite  away 


54 


OUT   OF   STEP 


from  her.  At  last  she  recalled  that  some  first-class  heroines 
were  proudly  composed  and  self-contained.  That  was  really 
the  way  to  be,  of  course. 

Very  soon  the  two  girls  emerged  from  the  shadow  and 
were  going  over  the  crisp  gray  moss  of  the  pasture.  The 
sunlight  was  very  bright  and  warm  here,  and  the  air  was 
full  of  the  scent  of  cedar  and  bayberry  and  sweet-fern. 

The  sunshine,  falling  full  upon  them,  seemed  to  have  a 
noticeable  effect  upon  the  elder  of  the  two.  She  stopped 
and  turned  her  head  towards  the  west,  where  in  deep-blue, 
cloudless  spaces  the  sun  was  going  slowly  down.  It  was 
yet  some  hours,  however,  to  the  sunset. 

Salome  pushed  back  her  hat.  There  was  a  pathetic 
eagerness  in  the  way  she  looked  upward. 

"  You've  heard  of  people  being  what  they  called  marked 
with  something,  haven't  you,  Nely?"  she  asked. 

Nely  was  surprised,  but  she  answered  immediately : 

"You  mean  when  they  like  or  dislike  something  so  much 
that  they  are  unreasonable  's  they  can  be  ?"  she  asked. 

"Yes,  just  that.  And  you  don't  think  they're  quite  re- 
sponsible, do  you  ?" 

Salome  put  this  question  as  if  even  this  child's  answer 
would  be  of  some  weight  with  her. 

Nely  stared  an  instant  before  she  replied  : 

"  No,  I  don't  see  how  they  can  be,  do  you  ?  There's  Ann 
Tomlins,  you  know ;  she  can't  bear  the  sight  nor  smell  of 
strawberries." 

"  I  remember  Ann  Tomlins,"  said  Salome.  "  Nobody 
blames  her  for  it,  I  suppose." 

"  Why,  of  course  they  don't !"  with  some  indignation. 
"  But  I  guess  I  don't  know  what  you  are  thinking  about." 

"I  was  thinking  that  I  am  marked  with  a  love  of  the  sun. 
That's  why  I  liked  Florida  so  well.  It  was  never  too  hot 
for  me.  If  I  can  have  the  sun,  hot  and  clear,  I  can  bear  a 
good  many  things.  We  have  to  bear  a  good  many  things, 
don't  we,  Nely  ?" 

Nely  did  not  know  why  something  in  that  voice  affected 


"WHY   DID   YOU    WAIT?"  55 

her  so  that  she  began  to  cry.  She  turned  and  flung  herself 
into  Salome's  arms  and  cried  as  if  her  heart  were  breaking. 
Salome  held  her  closely  and  spoke  soothingly  to  her.  In  a 
few  moments  Nely  lifted  her  head  and  declared  that  she 
was  just  as  silly  as  she  could  be,  and  she  was  sure  she 
didn't  know  what  was  the  matter  with  her.  "  But  oh,  she 
did  long  to  comfort  Salome  so  !" 

Salome  laughed  a  little  gently  at  this,  and  then  they 
went  on  again,  now  among  the  birches  through  which 
Moore  had  come  a  short  time  ago.  As  they  came  out  and 
in  sight  of  the  cottage  among  the  rocks  just  above  them, 
Salome  paused,  catching  Nely's  hand  as  she  said  : 

"  You  can  keep  a  secret,  can't  you,  Nely  ?" 

"Oh  yes  !"  proudly. 

"  Don't  tell,  then.  I  should  hate  to  have  Mrs.  Hill  and 
all  the  rest  talking.  You  understand?" 

"Oh  yes!"  again,  "you  can  trust  me.  And — and  —  " 
Nely  paused  and  then  burst  out,  "  Ain't  you  going  to  be 
happy,  Salome  ?" 

Salome  involuntarily  turned  her  face  up  towards  the  sun 
again.  The  pallor  of  that  face  and  the  glow  in  the  eyes 
made  a  deep  impression  upon  Nely.  She  had  never  seen 
any  one  look  like  that,  and  she  did  not  in  the  least  know 
what  it  meant.  How  could  she  know  that  Salome,  least  of 
all,  knew  what  it  meant  ? 

Salome  seemed  to  rouse  herself. 

"  Happy  ?"  she  said.  "  Oh,  I  don't  know.  Mother  says 
it  is  not  necessary  to  be  happy.  It  is  only  necessary  to  be 
in  the  right." 

"  Oh,  dear  !"  cried  Nely.  Then  in  a  moment,  "  Isn't  that 
your  mother  beckoning  to  us  ?  Do  I  look  's  if  I'd  been 
crying  ?  Laura  Hunt  says  I  show  it  ever  so  long  after  I've 
been  crying.  I  don't  know  what  I  should  do  if  anybody 
should  ask  me  if  I'd  been  crying.  I'll  just  stop  long 
enough  to  have  your  mother  give  me  the  rule  for  that  Har- 
rison cake.  We've  lost  ours,  and  we  expect  a  lot  of  com- 
pany next  week." 


56  OUT   OF   STEP 

They  hurried  up  the  rise  in  the  road.  Just  before  they 
reached  the  gate  Nely  paused  long  enough  to  say : 

"You  needn't  be  a  mite  afraid  that  I  shall  ever  tell  as 
long  as  I  live." 


IV 

"AS   IF   SOMETHING   WERE  GOING  TO   HAPPEN" 

"  I  S'POSE  you  don't  want  to  ride  down  to  the  village,  do 
you  ?" 

Mr.  Scudder  was  standing  before  the  six-inch  mirror  that 
hung  in  the  back  porch  for  his  especial  benefit.  He  had 
taken  off  his  overalls,  and  was  peering  into  the  glass  and 
putting  a  comb  through  his  hair.  His  hair  now  grew  mostly 
around  what  might  be  called  the  edges  of  his  head,  and  he 
combed  it  up  towards  the  place  where  it  did  not  grow.  He 
had  done  all  his  "chores"  an  hour  earlier  than  usual,  as  he 
always  did  on  those  nights  when  he  went  to  the  village. 
He  had  not  heard  any  news  for  a  whole  week,  and  he  was 
conscious  of  a  desire  to  sit  on  the  piazza  of  the  store  and 
hear  what  was  going  on.  Pelly  Loomis's  horse  had  had  the 
colic,  and  Mr.  Scudder  did  not  yet  know  whether  it  had  lived 
or  died.  He  had  not  heard  whether  Eb  Tilson  had  kept 
his  potato-vines  any  more  clear  of  bugs  than  he  had  done 
last  season.  If  Eb  had  been  as  slack  as  usual,  Mr.  Scud- 
der felt  that  he  wouldn't  give  seventy-five  cents  for  the  whole 
crop  of  potatoes. 

Mrs.  Scudder  was  passing  what  she  called  "a  handle- 
brush"  rapidly  in  front  of  and  at  the  sides  of  the  cook-stove, 
that  she  might  remove  any  "clutter"  incident  to  getting 
and  clearing  away  supper.  Nely  was  still  standing  at  the 
sink  washing  the  supper-dishes  in  the  most  desultory  and 
indifferent  manner.  Her  mother  had  said  two  or  three 
times  at  the  table  that  she  didn't  know,  she  was  sure,  what 
was  the  matter  with  Nely.  She  "  looked  as  if  she  had  been 
crying  her  eyes  out,  but  you  couldn't  get  nothing  out  of 


S8  OUT  OF   STEP 

her."  The  girl  had  come  home  that  afternoon  from  Mrs. 
Gerry's  with  the  rule  for  Harrison  cake,  and  "  she  had  been 
just  as  odd  as  she  could  be  ever  sence."  As  long  as  the 
school-master  had  given  them  a  half-holiday,  because  he 
wanted  to  visit  schools  that  afternoon*  Mrs.  Scudder  had 
supposed  that  Nely  would  be  in  good  spirits.  She  wanted 
the  girl  to  go  blackberrying,  but  Nely  hadn't  shown  any 
interest  in  anything.  "And  she  wouldn't  say  nothin'." 

All  this  Mrs.  Scudder  had  confided  to  her  husband  at  the 
first  opportunity.  She  concluded  by  remarking  that  if  Nely 
hadn't  had  the  measles  she  should  think  she  was  coming 
down  with  them,  and  should  give  her  sage-tea. 

But  Mr.  Scudder  had  only  laughed,  and  remarked  that 
Nely  was  a  gal,  V  if  they  expected  to  keep  track  of  all  the 
notions  a  gal  could  have  they'd  have  their  hands  more'n 
full.  To  this  Mrs.  Scudder  had  responded  by  making  the 
incontestable  statement  that  she  herself  was  a  gal  once. 

Now  Mr.  Scudder  repeated  his  remark  from  the  back 
porch,  that  he  s'posed  she  didn't  want  to  ride  over  to  the 
village.  She  said  she  didn't  know  as  she  did,  'n'  she  didn't 
know  but  she  did. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  you  c'n  be  findin'  out  while  I'm  hitch- 
in'  up." 

Then  he  walked  out  to  the  barn. 

Nely  began  to  hurry  as  she  put  away  the  dishes.  A  mo- 
ment later  she  dashed  out  to  the  barn  and  said : 

"  Mother's  going,  par ;  'n'  I  wish  you'd  put  in  the  other 
seat,  because  I  want  to  go,  too.  I'm  sick  as  death  of  just 
staying  right  here  all  the  time." 

"All  right,"  responded  Mr.  Scudder,  raising  his  head 
from  the  effort  required  to  put  the  collar  on  the  horse. 
"  It  '11  be  all  new  to  you  over  to  the  village,  won't  it  ?" 
Here  he  grinned. 

"  'Twon't,  either,"  answered  Nely,  "  but  my  head  feels  so 
bad  that  I  guess  the  ride  '11  do  me  good." 

"Mebby  'twill.  Anyway,  it's  a  mighty  pleasant  night. 
You  bring  out  my  coat  when  you  come;  'n'  tell  your  mar 


"  AS    IF    SOMETHING   WERE   GOING   TO    HAPPEN  "          59 

not  to  prink  too  long,  for  it  gits  dark  earlier  V  earlier  ev- 
ery night  now." 

In  a  few  moments  more  the  Scudder  house  was  locked, 
and  the  Scudder  family  were  all  in  the  "  democrat,"  which 
was  being  deliberately  pulled  along  the  road  by  the  Scud- 
der horse,  whose  days  of  hurry  seemed  long  since  over. 

Mrs.  Scudder  sat  precisely  in  the  middle  of  the  back  seat, 
and  Nely  was  on  the  front  seat  with  her  father.  There  was 
not  much  conversation,  as  the  equipage  moved  at  a  snail's 
pace  up  hill  and  down,  and  along  the  short  level  spaces. 
Sometimes  Mr.  Scudder  pointed  with  his  whip  to  some  piece 
of  land  which,  in  his  estimation,  "  wa'n't  worked  right."  He 
and  his  wife  occasionally  exchanged  a  few  words.  Mrs. 
Scudder  remarked  that  she  didn't  know's  old  man  Forbes 
was  shinglin'  his  barn  ;  and  Mr.  Scudder  responded  that 
the  old  man  had  ben  threatenin'  to  shingle  it  any  time  the 
last  ten  years,  and  he,  for  one,  was  glad  he'd  got  at  it. 

It  was  a  muggy  night.  The  sun,  as  it  neared  the  west, 
was  sinking  deeper  and  deeper  into  a  bank  of  dark  cloud. 
There  was  not  a  breath  of  wind.  The  horse,  though  it  did 
not  move  out  of  a  walk,  was  wet  in  streaks  where  the  har- 
ness touched  it.  When  the  carriage  came  near  any  trees 
the  shrill  cries  of  the  katydids  were  confusing. 

"  'Tain't  the  kind  of  a  afternoon  I  like,"  said  Mr.  Scud- 
der, looking  back  over  his  shoulder  at  the  west.  "  I  didn't 
notice  as  'twas  all  cloudin'  up  so.  If  I  had  I  d'  know's  I 
should  have  started.  Foolish  weather  enough  for  that 
medder  hay  't  I  cut  this  niornin'." 

Mrs.  Scudder  also  looked  back  over  her  shoulder.  But 
she  said  'twas  a  dry  time  and  she  didn't  look  for  rain  till 
after  the  moon  had  changed. 

Nely,  sitting  by  her  father,  said  nothing.  She  hardly 
heard  the  words  spoken  by  her  companions.  Her  whole 
mind  seemed  to  be  filled  with  what  she  had  seen  and  heard 
in  the  pine-woods  that  afternoon.  She  had  never  been  so 
interested  in  her  life.  Her  mind  appeared  to  be  bursting 
with  the  weight  of  her  thoughts,  and  she  could  not  speak 


60  OUT  OF   STEP 

of  them  to  any  one.  A  sense  of  importance  swelled  her 
consciousness.  But  she  could  keep  a  secret,  she  could  be 
loyal.  She  did  not  know  but  that  she  should  almost  wel- 
come tortures  in  behalf  of  Salome  Gerry.  How  Salome  had 
looked  !  She  certainly  must  be  in  love  with  that  man  who 
had  seemed  so  agitated,  and  who  had  walked  away  so  hur- 
riedly. 

"  What  ye  thinkin'  of,  Nely?  What  ye  got  on  yer  mind  ?" 
The  girl  was  aware  that  her  father  had  put  these  questions 
to  her.  She  roused  and  replied  promptly  that  she  wasn't 
thinking  of  anything,  and  she  hadn't  got  anything  on  her 
mind.  She  ended  by  exclaiming : 

"Ain't  it  hot?" 

She  took  off  her  hat  and  began  fanning  herself  violently 
with  it. 

The  sun  had  now  gone  into  the  dense  cloud,  and  the 
quickly  going  twilight  of  late  summer  had  come.  Faint 
streaks  of  "  heat  lightning  "  played  above  the  horizon. 

Mrs.  Scudder  threw  back  her  shawl ;  she  never  went 
anywhere  without  a  shawl,  even  in  midsummer. 

"  I  declare,"  she  said,  "  it's  as  much  's  I  can  do  to  ketch 
my  breath.  It's  one  of  them  times  when  you  wouldn't  be 
a  mite  surprised  if  something  happened." 

"  That's  just  the  way  I  feel,  mother,"  cried  Nely,  in  eager 
response.  "  I'm  all  worked  up,  somehow." 

"  Oh,  pshaw  !"  returned  Mr.  Scudder,  "  that's  jest  like 
women.  I  guess  there  won't  nothin'  happen  beyond  a 
change  in  the  weather  towards  morning.  Come,  Molly,  don't 
ye  shy.  If  you  begin  to  shy  such  a  night  's  this  I  sh'll 
think  the  women  are  right,  V  something  is  goin'  to  happen." 

Mr.  Scudder  laughed  comfortably  as  he  pulled  in  the 
reins.  Molly  shied  again  and  her  driver  touched  her  with 
the  whip. 

"  What  pesky  thing  's  the  matter  with  the  mare  ?"  he  ex- 
claimed. 

Nely  leaned  forward.  Then  she  put  her  hand  on  her 
father's  arm. 


"AS   IF   SOMETHING   WERE   GOING   TO    HAPPEN"          6 1 

"Father!"  she  whispered.  Her  eyes  glowed  in  the 
dusk. 

"  Well  ?"  said  Mr.  Scudder  with  some  impatience. 

"  Seems  to  me  Molly's  gittin'  skittish  in  her  old  age," 
said  Mrs.  Scudder  from  the  back  seat.  "  Lemmy  git  out  if 
she's  goin'  to  cut  up.  Dwight,  lemmy  git  out." 

"  Set  still,  Rebecca,"  was  the  answering  command.  "  I 
guess  I  c'n  manage  Molly.  If  I  can't  I'll  let  you  git  out. 
G'long  !"  lifting  his  whip. 

But  Molly  only  shied  again. 

"  I  swern  !"  said  Mr.  Scudder,  with  some  force.  "  I 
d'  know  what's  got  into  Molly." 

The  animal  did  not  seem  to  wish  to  go  on.  When  her 
master  touched  her  with  the  whip  again  she  did  not  move 
forward,  she  only  jumped  a  little  aside. 

"  Dwight,"  cried  Mrs.  Scudder,  "  lemmy  git  out !" 

She  began  scrambling  over  the  side  of  the  democrat,  not 
minding  her  husband's  repeated  command  to  "  set  still." 

In  her  estimation  it  was  high  time  to  leave  any  vehicle 
to  which  Molly  was  attached  when  Molly  began  to  shy. 

They  had  raised  Molly,  and  Mrs.  Scudder  remembered 
that  it  was  more  than  twenty  years  since  the  mare  had  been 
anything  but  steadiness  itself. 

She  did  not  know  how  she  did  it  without  having  the  wheel 
turned,  and  those  who  know  what  are  the  difficulties  in 
the  way  of  leaving  a  democrat  from  the  back  seat,  under  the 
best  of  circumstances,  will  wonder  how  a  somewhat  bulky 
woman,  who  had  had  rheumatism,  accomplished  this  feat. 

But  Mrs.  Scudder  floundered  and  scrambled  out  between 
the  wheels.  One  of  her  lifelong  principles  had  been  that 
she  would  never  stay  in  a  carriage  when  the  horse  was 
"  acting  up."  She  would  hardly  have  been  more  startled 
if  the  saw-horse  in  the  woodyard  at  home  had  begun  to 
"  act  up." 

As  soon  as  she  could  gather  herself  together  she  turned. 

"  Nely,"  she  said,  sharply,  "git  out !  If  your  father  wants 
to  stay  there  'n'  git  run  over  we  can't  help  it.  You  git  out." 


62  OUT   OF   STEP 

"  I  ain't  afraid,"  replied  Nely,  making  no  movement  to  obey. 

"I  guess,  Rebecca,"  remarked  Mr.  Scudder,  "that  you're 
the  one  that  '11  git  run  over.  We  can't  git  run  over  till  we 
jump  out.  Now,  you'll  have  the  fun  of  gittin'  in  agin. 
Molly's  all  right  now." 

As  if  to  illustrate  this  remark,  the  mare  began  to  snort 
and  paw. 

"You  call  that  bein'  all  right,  do  you?"  retorted  Mrs. 
Scudder. 

"  Father,"  said  Nely  in  a  half  voice,  "  do  you  see  any- 
thing over  there  in  the  bushes  under  that  tree?  That's 
what  makes  Molly  act  so.  Oh,  I'm  frightened !  I  thought 
I  saw  something  before,  and  then  I  thought  I  didn't.  I'm 
just  as  frightened  as  I  can  be !" 

Nely  put  her  foot  on  the  carriage  step  and  swung  herself 
as  far  out  as  she  dared,  clinging  to  the  iron  hold  as  she  did 
so.  Her  curiosity  was  great ;  but  she  had  a  strong  feeling 
that  she  did  not  wish  to  leave  the  carriage  until  her  father 
left  it. 

Mr.  Scudder's  eyes  turned  towards  the  spot  his  daughter 
had  mentioned.  Then  he  cried  out : 

"  I  do  believe  there  is  something  there  !" 

He  threw  the  lines  towards  the  girl,  saying,  "  You  hold 
them,"  then  he  sprang  over  the  wheel  with  the  agility  of 
twenty  years. 

He  walked  quickly  up  to  the  bushes,  which  showed  that 
they  had  been  trampled  upon.  Among  the  bushes  lay  a 
man.  He  lay  with  that  entire  stillness  which  is  so  dreadful 
to  look  upon. 

"  Father,"  said  Nely  from  the  wagon,  almost  beside  her- 
self with  fright  and  curiosity — "father,  who  is  it  ?" 

But  there  was  no  answer  to  this  question.  The  girl  had 
a  conviction  as  to  who  that  person  lying  there  was.  She 
did  not  know  why  she  had  this  conviction,  but  she  never 
doubted  the  truth  of  it. 

Mr.  Scudder  and  his  wife  were  now  bending  over  the 
figure  among  the  bushes. 


"  AS    IF    SOMETHING   WERE   GOING   TO   HAPPEN  "          63 

"  Father,"  cried  Nely,  "  is  he  dead  ?     Is  he  dead  ?" 

But  there  was  no  answer  to  this  question  either.  It  was 
in  silence  at  first  that  the  two  examined  the  insensible  man. 

"  I  can't  make  out  whether  he's  dead  or  not,"  at  last  said 
Mr.  Scudder  in  a  low  voice  to  his  wife. 

She  had  not  touched  the  man,  but  she  answered  directly, 
in  the  same  voice  : 

"  I  don't  reckon  he's  dead,  somehow ;  but  mebby  he  is." 

"  What's  goin'  to  be  done,  anyway?"  asked  the  man. 

"  Father !  Father !"  came  the  shrill  voice  from  the  wagon, 
"  who  is  it  ?" 

"  Can't  you  be  still,  Nely  ?"  asked  her  mother.  The  girl's 
penetrating  voice  was  a  kind  of  desecration  of  the  strange 
stillness  which  seemed  to  have  come  with  the  discovery  of 
that  form  among  the  bushes. 

"  What's  the  best  thing  to  be  done,  do  you  think?"  asked 
Mr.  Scudder  again,  appealing  to  his  wife's  never-failing 
common-sense  and  kindliness. 

"  I'm  thinkin',"  she  responded.  "  S'pos'n  we  git  him 
right  into  the  democrat  and  take  him  to  the  house  ?  We 
c'n  all  git  him  in,  I  guess.  You  take  out  the  back  seat  'n' 
leave  it  here.  'Tain't  quite  a  mile  back  home,  'n'  it's  over 
two  mile  to  the  village.  Then  you  go  right  back  for  the 
doctor.  I  guess  that's  the  best  we  c'n  do,  don't  you  think 
so?" 

"  Yes,  'tis." 

Having  said  this,  Mr.  Scudder  stepped  quickly  to  the 
carriage,  and  began  to  unfasten  the  screws  which  held  the 
back  seat  in  place. 

"  Father,"  said  Nely,  twisting  about  in  her  place,  "father, 
is  he  dead  ?  I  should  think  you  might  tell  me  !" 

The  girl  shivered  with  excitement  and  dread. 

"We  don't  know,  child,"  was  the  answer.  "He's  layin' 
there  insensible." 

"  But  who  is  he  ?" 

"  Nely !"  said  Mrs.  Scudder,  reprovingly.  "  He's  a 
stranger.  We  don't  know  who  he  is." 


64  OUT   OF   STEP 

Nely  clinched  the  reins  tighter  than  before. 

"  It's  that  man,"  she  whispered  to  herself.  "  Oh,  what 
has  happened  ?  And  what  will  Salome  do  ?" 

She  watched  the  movements  of  her  father  and  mother. 
She  saw  them  try  to  lift  the  man.  Then  her  father  came  to 
the  horse's  head  and  backed  the  animal  so  that  the  end  of 
the  wagon  was  close  to  the  bushes.  He  let  down  the  tail- 
board. 

"  Nely's  strong,"  said  Mrs.  Scudder.  "  Come  here'n 
help !  Molly  '11  stand  now,  won't  she,  Dwight  ?" 

"  Yes,  she'll  stand." 

The  man  looked  up  and  down  the  road. 

"  I  didn't  know  but  somebody  'd  be  comin'  along,"  he 
said. 

But  in  the  deepening  dusk  no  one  could  be  seen. 

"  Come,  Nely,"  said  Mrs.  Scudder. 

The  girl  slowly  descended.     She  shuddered  and  shrank. 

Yes,  it  was  that  man.  She  had  been  sure  of  it.  And 
she  believed  he  was  dead.  Oh,  what  would  Salome  do  ? 

"Come,  Nely,  help  your  mother,"  said  Mr.  Scudder. 
"  There  ain't  no  time  for  notions  now.  He's  a  good-sized 
man,  but  we  c'n  git  him  in  well  enough.  There.  P'r'aps 
we'll  bring  him  out  of  this  all  shipshape.  He's  young,  and 
young  folks  stand  'most  anything." 

The  stranger  was  now  lying  in  the  bottom  of  the  carriage. 
Mrs.  Scudder  mounted,  with  almost  the  agility  her  husband 
had  displayed,  and  arranged  her  shawl  for  the  man's  head 
to  rest  upon. 

"  I  wish  you  could  git  Molly  out  of  a  walk,  Dwight,"  she 
said.  "  The  sooner  we  c'n  have  a  doctor  the  easier  I  sh'll 
feel." 

Mr.  Scudder  took  his  seat.  Once  more  he  glanced  along 
the  road  to  see  if,  haply,  some  one  might  come  by  whom  he 
could  send  word  to  the  village.  But  there  was  no  one.  He 
gathered  up  the  lines. 

"  I  guess  I'll  set  over  here  and  hold  his  head,"  said  Mrs. 
Scudder. 


"AS    IF    SOMETHING   WERE    GOING   TO    HAPPEN"          65 

She  spoke  in  a  low  voice.  Her  face  was  filled  with  an  awe- 
struck gravity  that  was  not  without  a  hint  of  tenderness 
when  her  eyes  rested  on  the  face  she  now  placed  on  her 
lap  as  she  sat  on  the  floor  of  the  wagon. 

Even  in  this  fixed  expression  there  was  that  in  Moore's 
countenance  which  could  attract.  And  the  helplessness, 
the  fear  that  life  would  not  come  back,  impressed  this  group 
of  simple  people  as  the  more  worldly-wise  would  also  have 
been  impressed. 

The  old  mare  was  made  to  understand  that  this  was  an 
occasion  when  she  would  do  well  to  recall  her  former  vigor 
and  speed.  She  trotted  home  briskly.  Twice  during  the 
few  moments  that  the  journey  required  Mr.  Scudder  turned 
and  asked,  "  Has  he  come  to  any  yet  ?"  And  each  time 
Mrs.  Scudder  said  "  No." 

And  Moore  had  not  "come  to"  in  the  slightest  degree 
when  he  had  been  placed  on  the  bed  in  the  little  spare  bed- 
room and  Molly  was  on  her  way,  still  at  a  brisk  trot,  to  the 
village  for  the  doctor. 

But  Mrs.  Scudder  knew  now  that  the  young  man  breathed. 
He  was  not  dead.  That  was  all  that  she  could  ascer- 
tain. 

She  sat  by  the  bed  and  directed  Nely  to  bring  mustard 
and  hot-water  cloths.  She  rubbed  Moore's  hands  and 
chest  while  she  waited  for  Nely  to  fetch  what  she  had  or- 
dered. She  wondered  how  he'  had  been  hurt.  She  had 
found  no  blood  upon  him. 

But  the  mystery  of  the  circumstances  was  absorbed  in  the 
woman's  anxiety. 

Nely  ran  back  and  forth  between  the  bedroom  and  the 
kitchen  stove,  where  she  had  made  a  fire.  The  heat  in  the 
low -browed  rooms  was  intense,  but  she  did  not  think  of  it. 
The  clouds  had  spread  themselves  over  the  whole  sky,  and 
it  was  very  dark.  Sometimes  there  was  a  low,  distant 
grumble  of  thunder. 

Once  Mrs.  Scudder,  taking  a  hot  cloth  from  her  daugh- 
ter's hand,  said  she  should  think  by  the  sound  that  the 
5 


06  OUT   OF   STEP 

tempest  was  workin'  round  towards  the  south.  She  didn't 
think  they'd  ketch  the  heft  of  it  here ;  she  hoped,  anyway, 
it  would  clear  the  air  some. 

The  perspiration  was  dropping  from  her  face.  The  small 
blaze  of  the  kerosene  lamp  seemed  to  heat  the  room  un- 
bearably. Outside,  against  the  screen -cloth  tacked  upon 
the  window,  the  moths  were  dashing  themselves  in  their  ef- 
fort to  get  to  the  light. 

Moore's  long  length  lay  motionless  on  the  bed.  His  yel- 
low beard  was  more  closely  cropped  than  usual  and  his  hair 
also  was  cut  short,  save  for  the  locks  which  hung  longer 
over  his  forehead. 

His  face  was  very  peaceful  as  Mrs.  Scudder  looked  down 
at  it.  That  expression  which  might  be  called  a  mixture  of 
manliness  and  tenderness,  which  his  face  when  at  its  best 
often  showed,  was  visible  now,  and  the  two  women  were 
greatly  moved  by  this  and  by  his  helplessness.  It  is  when 
the  strong  are  helpless  that  the  latter  state  is  most  appeal- 
ing. 

Nely,  having  delivered  the  last  towel,  with  which  she  had 
nearly  scalded  her  hands  in  wringing  from  the  water,  stood 
gazing  down  at  the  man. 

She  was  thinking  that  she  didn't  wonder  that  Salome 
loved  him,  if  she  did  love  him.  But  perhaps  she  didn't  love 
him,  and  so  he  had  tried  to  kill  himself. 

This  solution  of  the  mystery  at  first  seemed  quite  plaus- 
ible to  Nely.  She  thought  that  if  she  were  a  man  and  loved 
Salome,  and  Salome  did  not  return  that  love,  she  should 
want  to  kill  herself  —  only  that  she  was  always  so  afraid  of 
being  hurt.  In  addition  to  all  her  other  emotions  on  this 
occasion,  the  girl  had  to  contend  with  the  secret  sense  of 
importance  caused  by  the  fact  that  she  had  seen  Moore  be- 
fore. Half  a  dozen  times  this  secret  almost  burst  from  her. 
She  imagined  how  her  mother  would  look  if  she  should 
suddenly  exclaim  : 

"  I  saw  him  this  afternoon  with  Salome." 

The  fight  she  was  obliged  to  keep  up  to  prevent  herself 


•'  AS    IF   SOMETHING   WERE    GOING  TO   HAPPEN  "          67 

from  doing  this  was  a  counter-agitation,  and  perhaps  kept 
her  in  tolerable  poise  through  the  hour  of  waiting  that  fol- 
lowed. 

After  a  short  time  Mrs.  Scudder,  convinced  that  she  ef- 
fected nothing,  ceased  to  make  any  more  attempts  to  re- 
store consciousness  to  her  charge.  She  sat  there  by  the 
bed  gently  fanning  the  young  man. 

Her  thoughts  wandered  far  afield.  Strange  ideas  came 
to  her  until,  as  she  told  herself  afterwards,  she  was  kind 
of  frightened  jest  thinkin'  what  a  woman  could  think  if  she 
let  her  mind  run  on. 

Once  she  leaned  forward  and  tenderly  pushed  that  lock 
of  hair  from  Moore's  forehead. 

"  I  wonder  who  his  mother  is,"  she  thought.  "  I'm  thank- 
ful she  don't  know  'bout  this.  I'll  do  all  I  can  for  him.  If 
he  was  my  boy,  I  should  want  anybody  to  do  what  they 
could." 

Here  Mrs.  Scudder's  mild,  prominent  blue  eyes  became 
misty,  and  she  hastily  passed  her  apron  over  them. 

There  was  a  decided  sniffle  behind  her  chair. 

"  Nely,"  said  the  woman,  "  is  that  you  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  Nely,  sobbing,  "and  I  shall  have  sixteen  fits 
if  I  don't  cry.  I'm  so  excited  I  don't  know  what  to  do." 

"  Cry,  then,"  was  the  instant  advice.  "  It's  a  tryin'  time, 
I  do  think." 

Nely  pressed  her  handkerchief  to  her  mouth  lest  she 
should  explain  that  she  was  having  an  especially  trying 
time,  for  she  was  keeping  a  secret. 

"  There  !  it's  raining !"  she  cried,  as  a  heavy  dash  of  rain 
came  straight  down,  without  a  breath  of  wind  to  sway  it  from 
the  perpendicular,  "  and  I  hear  wheels." 

The  girl  ran  out  upon  the  back  porch.  She  could  not 
see  anything  from  the  lighted  room.  She  looked  into  black- 
ness ;  the  rain  hissed  upon  the  dried  grass  of  the  yard.  It 
made  such  a  noise  that  she  could  hardly  tell  whether  she 
heard  the  sound  of  horses'  feet  softly  falling  on  the  turf. 

"  Father !"  she  shouted. 


68  OUT  OF   STEP 

She  grasped  a  pillar  of  the  porch  and  leaned  far  out,  the 
warm  rain  dropping  heavily  on  her  hair.  "  Father !  Is  that 
you  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  a  voice  close  behind  her.  "  Has  he  come 
to?" 

"  No.     Did  you  get  the  doctor  ?" 

"  He  was  over  to  Gay's  Corners.  Tim  Drew's  gone  after 
him  on  his  colt.  I  wish  you'd  light  the  lantern." 

Mrs.  Scudder,  standing  at  the  open  back  door,  heard 
these  words  above  the  swish  of  the  rain,  and  she  could  not 
suppress  a  groan  as  she  heard  them. 

"  There  ain't  nothin'  to  be  done,  then  ?"  she  said,  as  her 
husband  stepped  forward  to  take  the  lantern  handed  him 
by  Nely. 

Streams  of  water  were  running  from  Mr.  Scudder's  hat. 
The  lantern  threw  into  sight  behind  him  the  shining,  wet, 
solemn  face  of  the  mare,  with  her  ears  drooping  disconso- 
lately outward,  away  from  each  other. 

"  Nothin'  but  to  wait,"  was  the  answer,  and  Mr.  Scudder 
took  hold  of  the  bridle  and  walked  away  towards  the  barn. 

When  he  came  back  his  face  showed  how  intense  had 
been  his  interest  during  his  drive.  He  hurried  into  the 
bedroom.  But  he  came  back  directly. 

"  There  ain't  no  difference  in  him  's  I  see,"  he  said,  in  a 
whisper. 

"  No,  there  ain't,"  responded  his  wife. 

"  I  like  the  looks  of  him  first  rate,"  he  said. 

Then  he  retired  to  take  off  his  soaked  clothing.  While 
he  was  gone  Mrs.  Scudder  resumed  her  seat  by  the  bed  on 
which  Moore  lay.  But  she  hurried  again  into  the  kitchen 
when  she  heard  her  husband  return. 

"  Did  you  hear  nothin'  about  him  ?"  she  asked,  quickly. 

Nely  stood  breathless,  awaiting  the  answer. 

"Not  a  thing,"  said  the  man. 

"I  declare,  I  sh'd  almost  er  thought  somebody'd  er 
known  something." 

"  Mebby  somebody  does,"  returned  Mr.  Scudder,  "  but  I 


"AS    IF   SOMETHING   WERE   GOING  TO   HAPPEN"    •      69 

ain't  seen  many  folks,  you  know.  I  don't  believe  he's  been 
in  the  village,  anyway.  P'r'aps  he's  come  from  the  deepo 
V  didn't  go  to  the  village  at  all.  He  might  have  walked 
right  over  to  this  neighborhood  to  see  somebody  or  do  some 
business.  'Tain't  no  use  guessin'  'bout  it,  anyway.  When 
he  comes  to  he'll  tell  us  who  he  is." 

"  If  he  ever  does  come  to."  Mrs.  Scudder  spoke  with 
great  dejection. 

"  He  can't  be  that  relation  o'  Luke  Johnson's  that  went 
to  sea,  can  he  ?"  suddenly  inquired  Mr.  Scudder. 

"  Dwight !"  cried  his  wife,  "  I  should  think  you'd  know 
better  than  to  imagine  the  Johnsons  ever  had  any  relations 
that  looked  like  this  young  man." 

Mr.  Scudder  acknowledged  that  it  wasn't  likely.  And 
then,  having  suggested  that  they  should  not  guess  as  to  the 
identity  of  the  stranger,  he  went  on  and  made  half  a  dozen 
suggestions  of  the  most  preposterous  kind.  He  was  ex- 
tremely depressed  and  excited.  He  kept  walking  round 
the  kitchen  and  into  the  bedroom.  He  repeated  that  he 
liked  the  looks  of  the  fellow. 

The  rain  continued  to  fall  as  if  it  would  never  cease.  In 
an  hour  a  horse  and  carriage  came  rushing  into  the  yard, 
and  almost  before  the  wheels  had  stopped  the  door  opened 
and  a  small  thin  man  entered. 

"  Scudder,"  he  said,  "  I  wish  you'd  put  my  horse  under 
cover.  It's  raining  by  the  pailful.  Now,  who-  is  it  that's 
hurt  ?" 

He  followed  Mrs.  Scudder  into  the  bedroom.  Nely  hov- 
ered about  near  the  bed. 

Though  the  man  was  only  a  country  doctor,  he  had  sharp 
eyes  and  common-sense,  aside  from  his  education. 

He  caught  up  the  lamp  and  bent  over  Moore  with  it  in 
his  hand,  his  gaze  seeming  to  dive  into  the  calm  face  be- 
fore him.  To  Mrs.  Scudder  the  very  calmness  of  the  face 
was  something  terrible.  She  had  been  watching  it  so  long 
that  she  could  now  hardly  endure  that  the  doctor's  silence 
should  continue  for  a  moment;  but  she  respected  his  silence. 


70  OUT   OF   STEP 

Presently  Mr.  Scudder  returned  from  the  barn.  He  stood 
in  the  doorway  and  looked  at  the  bed. 

Perhaps  the  temptation  to  act  the  part  of  an  oracle  is 
naturally  strong  in  a  physician.  To  act  the  part  of  an 
oracle  might  veil  many  things.  But  there  was  no  reason  for 
speaking,  and  Dr.  Sands  did  not  speak  for  a  long  time.  He 
passed  his  hands  deftly  and  searchingly  over  Moore's  body. 
He  turned  the  head  from  side  to  side  on  the  pillow;  he 
lifted  it  and  looked  at  it. 

Mrs.  Scudder  used  to  say  afterwards  that  if  she  was  ever 
out  of  patience  with  any  one,  'twas  with  Dr.  Sands  that 
night  when  he  came  to  see  that  young  man. 

At  last  the  physician  straightened  himself. 

"Well,"  he  said, more  as  an  exclamation  of  relief  to  him- 
self than  as  an  address  to  any  one. 

"  I  do  hope  you've  found  out  something,"  said  Mrs.  Scud- 
der, more  sharply  than  she  usually  spoke. 

"  Oh  yes,"  said  the  doctor.  He  thrust  his  hands  into  his 
pockets  and  gazed  down  absorbedly  at  his  patient,  com- 
pressing his  lips  and  wrinkling  his  forehead. 

"  Beautiful,  neat  kind  of  a  blow,"  he  said,  addressing 
himself. 

"  Is  he  going  to  come  to  ?  That's  what  I  want  to  find 
out." 

As  he  spoke  Mr.  Scudder  advanced  into  the  room.  He 
had  an  inclination  to  shake  Dr.  Sands,  holding  him  by  the 
back  of  his  coat-collar. 

"Oh  yes,"  replied  the  doctor;  "  I  reckon  on  his  coming 
to  if  we  can  do  the  right  thing  for  him.  I'll  go  down  to  the 
station  and  wire  up  to  Boston  for  Jennings.  He's  about  the 
man  for  this  case.  He  can  take  the  midnight  train  that 
stops  at  the  Corners,  and  I'll  meet  him.  Now,  who  is  the 
fellow,  anyway  ?  Have  you  looked  in  his  pockets  ?  We 
might  as  well  send  for  his  mother,  if  he's  got  one.  You 
don't  know  how  things  will  turn  out.  Do  you  know  him, 
either  of  you  ?  But  Tim  Drew  said  nobody  knew  him, 
didn't  he?" 


"AS   IF   SOMETHING   WERE   GOING   TO   HAPPEN"          71 

As  Dr.  Sands  spoke  he  lightly  but  effectively  searched 
Moore's  pockets.  In  the  breast-pocket  of  his  coat  he  found 
two  envelopes.  One  was  empty  and  bore  no  postmark,  but 
it  was  addressed  to  Miss  Portia  Nunally,  at  a  village  on  the 
"  North  Shore."  The  other  bore  Moore's  name,  and  had 
evidently  been  received  the  day  before,  from  the  stamps 
upon  it. 

This  letter  Dr.  Sands  opened,  his  eye  going  swiftly  down 
the  page,  his  keen,  somewhat  hard  face  not  changing  in  the 
least  as  he  read  "  My  dearest "  at  the  top  in  tall,  dashing 
handwriting.  This  letter  was  signed  "  Always  your  Portia." 

And  that  was  all  the  letters.  There  was  a  case  with 
Moore's  visiting-cards  in  it,  and  half  a  dozen  of  his  firm's 
business  cards  were  in  his  waistcoat  pocket.  It  was  easy 
to  learn  who  he  was. 

Dr.  Sands  held  up  Portia  Nunally's  letter  between  his 
thumb  and  finger. 

"This  is  the  woman  to  send  for,"  he  said.  "This  is  the 
woman  he  was  going  to  marry  next  week.  I'll  wire  her, 
too,  when  I  send  for  Jennings." 

Nely,  hovering  about  in  the  room,  fastened  her  eyes  on 
the  envelope  which  Dr.  Sands  still  held.  Her  glance  took 
in  the  woman's  name.  So  he  was  going  to  marry  some- 
body else  ;  he  wasn't  going  to  marry  Salome,  after  all.  She 
should  just  like  to  know  what  had  made  him  look  at  Sa- 
lome that  kind  of  a  way;  she  should  just  like  to  know — 
she  clasped  her  hands  together  in  an  ecstasy  of  excitement 
and  curiosity. 

Dr.  Sands  now  abruptly  went  into  the  kitchen  and  began 
to  put  on  his  rubber  coat,  which  had  dripped  a  long  stream 
of  water  on  the  floor.  Mrs.  Scudder  followed  him  instantly. 

"  But  ain't  you  goin'  to  do  nothin'  for  him  ?"  she  asked,  in 
a  horrified  tone.  "  Be  you  goin'  to  leave  him  jest  like  this?" 

"  It's  no  use  to  try  to  give  him  medicine,"  answered  the 
doctor,  rapidly  buttoning  his  coat;  "might  as  well  give 
medicine  to  a  dead  woodchuck.  Let  him  lie  there  ;  it's  all 
you've  got  to  do." 


•J2  OUT   OF    STEP 

And  Dr.  Sands  opened  the  door  and  ran  out  to  the  barn, 
followed  more  slowly  by  Mr.  Scudder  with  the  lantern. 

"  I  do  wish,"  said  Mrs.  Scudder — "  I  do  wish  that  Dr. 
Sands  wouldn't  'low  himself  to  talk  like  that.  It  sounds 
kind  of  butcherin',  somehow." 

After  a  few  moments'  consideration  Mrs.  Scudder  an- 
nounced that  she  should  put  mustard  on  that  young  man's 
feet,  and  on  the  back  of  his  neck,  anyway.  Mustard  never 
did  any  harm  yet,  and  sometimes  it  worked  like  a  charm. 

In  the  hour  that  followed  Nely  was  going  at  intervals  be- 
tween waiting  upon  her  mother  to  the  little  lampstand  in 
the  bedroom,  where  lay  the  letter  Portia  Nunally  had  writ- 
ten to  Moore,  and  which  the  doctor  had  taken  from  the 
young  man's  pocket.  She  seemed  bewitched  by  that  large 
square  envelope.  That  must  be  a  love-letter,  and  it  wasn't 
written  by  Salome  to  this  man.  It  was  written  by  some 
one  else.  Perhaps  Salome  had  been  disappointed.  Nely 
wondered  what  would  happen  now.  Again  she  said  aloud 
that  she  was  just  as  excited  as  she  could  be.  She  didn't 
know  but  she  ought  to  drink  a  little  red-lavender  in  a  glass 
of  water. 

And  when  that  man  Dr.  Sands  had  called  Jennings  came, 
what  would  be  done  to  that  man  on  the  bed  there  ? 

Altogether,  Nely  felt  that  things  were  happening  in  a  be- 
wildering manner ;  but  she  had  a  secret  consciousness  that 
they  were  romantic. 

Mr.  Scudder  had  walked  back  and  forth  from  the  kitchen 
to  the  bedroom  a  few  times ;  then  he  had  thrown  himself  on 
a  lounge,  and,  despite  his  interest,  he  had  fallen  asleep,  and 
his  snoring  was  mingled  with  the  swish  of  the  rain  on  the 
porch  roof. 

It  was  now  after  ten  o'clock,  and  the  night  was  so  close 
that  it  seemed  difficult  to  get  air  enough  to  breathe.  Nely 
went  out  upon  the  back  piazza.  Her  mother  had  been 
trying  to  persuade  her  to  go  to  bed,  but  the  girl  scoffed  at 
this  idea.  She  said  that  she  never  expected  to  sleep  again 
in  all  her  life. 


"AS    IF   SOMETHING   WERE    GOING   TO   HAPPEN  73 

Now,  as  she  stood  there,  the  rain  began  to  slacken,  the 
clouds  were  less  black.  Along  the  west  there  was  a  broad- 
ening streak  of  light ;  a  wind  from  the  north  blew  over  the 
meadows  below  the  barn. 

"  It's  going  to  clear,"  said  Nely. 

And  as  she  said  those  words  she  started  back  to  the 
house,  impelled  by  a  sudden  impulse.  She  would  go  to 
Salome.  She  would  tell  her  what  had  happened.  Per- 
haps Salome  ought  to  know.  Anyway,  she  would  go  ;  she 
must  go. 

She  hurried  into  the  house. 

"  Mother,  the  rain  is  over.  I'm  going  out.  I'm  just  as 
nervous  as  I  can  be.  I've  got  to  go.  Don't  you  worry 
about  me.  Oh  ! "  —  as  she  thought  her  mother  was  about 
to  remonstrate  — "  if  you  tell  me  I  mustn't  go  I  shall  have 
a  fit !  I  shall,  as  true  as  I  live." 

Nely  knew  very  well  that  she  should  beat  down  any  ob- 
jections that  her  mother  might  raise ;  she  had  beaten  down 
all  objections  to  her  own  way  as  long  as  she  could  re- 
member. 

"  Do  put  on  your  rubbers,  then,"  was  all  that  Mrs.  Scud- 
der's  remonstrances  came  to. 

In  another  moment  Nely's  skirts  were  brushing  the  wet 
grass,  or  her  feet  were  splashing  through  puddles,  as  she 
fled  on  along  the  road  towards  the  small  house  on  the 
Ledge. 


V 

AT   THE   SCUDDERS* 

SALOME,  left  alone  with  her  mother  after  Nely  had  gone 
with  the  recipe  for  Harrison  cake,  turned  from  her  compan- 
ion with  a  gesture  which  seemed  to  say,  "  Don't  speak  to 
me." 

Mrs.  Gerry  obeyed  that  gesture.  She  sat  down,  taking 
up  some  sewing  and  resolutely  threading  her  needle,  not 
glancing  at  her  daughter,  who  was  standing  in  the  middle 
of  the  room,  with  her  hand  resting  on  the  top  of  a  chair. 

After  a  few  minutes,  however,  Mrs.  Gerry  said  : 

"  I  do  wish  you  would  sit  down." 

Then  the  woman  was  sorry  she  had  spoken.  It  be- 
trayed a  weakness  to  speak  thus ;  and  it  was  Mrs.  Gerry's 
constant  desire  that  she  should  not  betray  or  feel  a  weak- 
ness. Ever  since  her  daughter  had  passed  childhood  it 
had  seemed  to  Mrs.  Gerry  that  she  must  be  strong,  not 
only  for  herself,  but  for  Salome,  also.  And,  clear-thoughted 
as  this  woman  usually  was,  there  had  still  been  many  hours 
of  confusion  when  her  mind  had  dwelt  on  this  subject.  The 
fear  that  she  had  actually  begun  to  judge  Salome  by  a  dif- 
ferent standard  from  that  by  which  she  judged  others  was 
an  increasing  fear  that  amounted  sometimes  to  assurance 
that  such  was  the  case.  There  was  only  one  way  to  judge 
— was  a  thing  right  or  wrong  ?  But  Salome  —  she  was  dif- 
ferent. A  wrong  thing  done  by  her  was  not  the  same  as  a 
wrong  thing —  When  she  reached  this  point  in  that  ever- 
repeated  train  of  thought  Mrs.  Gerry  would  start  back  from 
herself  in  fear  of  what  she  might  be  led  to  think.  And  al- 
ways her  conclusion  was,  "  Salome  is  so  different." 


AT   THE   SCUDDERS'  75 

At  times  she  would  break  out  into  the  question,  "  But 
those  others  who  do  such  wrongs,  are  they  different,  too  ? 
Has  something  made  it  less  a  sin,  also,  for  them  ?" 

Salome  turned  to  her  mother. 

"  Did  you  speak  to  me  ?"  she  asked. 

Mrs.  Gerry's  face  broke  from  its  repression.  She  put 
down  her  sewing.  It  suddenly  seemed  a  kind  of  irrever- 
ence to  sew  at  this  moment. 

"Yes,  I  asked  if  you  would  sit  down,"  she  said. 

"  Oh  yes  ;  certainly,"  replied  the  girl. 

She  leaned  back  in  the  chair  for  a  moment.  Then  she 
looked  towards  where  Mrs.  Gerry  sat.  Her  eyes  had  that 
vague,  dazzled  expression  which  is  sometimes  seen  in  a  face 
whose  owner  is  watched. 

"  Mother,"  she  said,  turning  quickly,  "  I  am  suffering.  I 
am  suffering." 

The  words  were  repeated  sharply,  but  still  in  a  low  voice. 

There  was  no  answer  directly.  Mrs.  Gerry  was  trying  to 
summon  all  her  powers  to  her  daughter's  aid.  For  what 
else  did  she  live,  save  that  she  might  help  her  daughter? 
However  incalculable  was  the  love,  it  was  impossible  that 
human  nature  should  not  sometimes  be  weary.  It  was  al- 
most a  deadly  weariness  now  that  seemed  to  paralyze  Mrs. 
Gerry's  mind.  She  had  been  anxious  until  it  seemed  to  her 
that  she  could  not  feel  anxious  any  more.  But  in  her  numb- 
ness there  was  still  a  dull  misery  which  helped  to  confuse 
her. 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  wishing  it  might  be  given  her  to 
say  the  right  thing,  but  knowing  dully  her  inefficiency; 
"  I  feared  you  might  be  unhappy.  But,  Salome,  Salome," 
her  voice  rising,  "you  may,  perhaps,  have  to  give  up  happi- 
ness. We  have  to  do  that  sometimes." 

There  was  no  answer  to  this.  There  was  still  that  same 
blind  look  in  the  girl's  eyes. 

"  You  have  seen  Mr.  Moore  ?"  Mrs.  Gerry  decided  that 
words  could  not  be  quite  so  painful  as  this  silence,  and  per- 
haps if  she  talked  some,  light  would  come  to  her. 


76  OUT  OF   STEP 

"  Yes,"  said  Salome.     "  Did  he  tell  you  ?" 

"  He  didn't  tell  me  anything."  Mrs.  Gerry  was  glad  she 
was  benumbed,  because  if  she  had  not  been,  she  should  have 
gone  to  her  child  and  have  taken  her  in  her  arms,  and  any 
manifestation  of  affection  now  would  have  prostrated  her 
still  more.  And  yet  she  was  getting  used  to  things,  she  be- 
lieved. 

After  a  short  silence  Salome  said  : 

•>"You  were  right,  mother.  I  wonder  if  you  are  always 
right  ?  Since  I  had  sent  him  away,  there  was  no  reason 
now  why  I  should  write  to  him ;  but  I  wrote.  He  came  to 
tell  me  he  is  going  to  marry  Miss  Nunally.  Mother,  is  that 
the  way  men  are  ?" 

"  Men  and  women,  I  think,"  was  the  answer.  "  Then  this 
is  the  end  of  it  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  Salome,  promptly,  "this  is  the  end  of  it." 

She  rose  and  went  to  the  table  where  lay  a  package.  She 
took  it,  remarking  that  she  would  correct  those  exercises, 
that  she  ought  to  have  done  it  in  the  morning.  She  stood 
with  the  papers  in  her  hand,  looking  down  at  them.  Then 
she  walked  to  the  door  and  paused  with  her  back  to  her 
mother. 

"  Why  do  you  say  women  also  are  that  way  ?"  she  asked. 

"  Because  women  are  also  human  beings,"  was  the  an- 
swer. "I  tell  you  people  are  going  to  try  to  console 
themselves  if  they  think  hope  is  really  gone." 

Salome  turned  about.  She  smiled  as  she  said  that  per- 
haps she  would  console  herself. 

"  How  agreeable  that  would  be  !"  she  added. 

She  went  out  of  the  room,  but  she  came  back  to  say 
that  perhaps  Mr.  Moore  would  come  to  the  house  again,  as 
they  were  interrupted  in  their  talk.  "  And  if  he  does  come 
— mother,  are  you  listening  to  me  ? — if  he  does  come,  don'1 
let  me  see  him.  If  I  saw  him  again,  I  might  ask  him  some- 
thing. Why,  mother,  I  might  ask  him  to  break  with  Miss 
Nunally  and  marry  me — since  we  still  love  each  other.  Sc 
you  see,  plainly,  that  I  must  not  see  him,  don't  you,  mother  i 


AT   THE   SCUDDERS  77 

For  you  wouldn't  have  me  ask  him  to  do  that,  would  you  ? 
That  would  be  what  Mrs.  Scudder  would  call,  if  she  knew, 
'of  a  piece'  with  all  the  rest  I  have  done.  So  tell  him 
that  I  will  not  see  him  again.  And,  mother,  will  you  be 
very  kind  to  him  ?" 

Salome  crossed  the  room  to  Mrs.  Gerry,  and  dropped 
down  on  the  wooden  footstool  where  her  mother's  feet  had 
rested.  She  flung  the  package  of  exercises  from  her,  and 
put  her  arms  about  her  mother,  repeating,  with  a  piercing 
tenderness : 

"  Will  you  be  very  kind  to  him  ?" 

Then  she  placed  her  face  on  her  mother's  bosom,  drew 
a  long  breath,  and  was  perfectly  still. 

Mrs.  Gerry  also  was  quiet,  holding  the  girlish  figure  with 
a  stern  closeness. 

Some  moments  passed  thus,  and  then  Salome  rose, 
took  the  package  of  papers  again,  and  now  she  left  the 
room. 

With  those  mechanical  movements  which  mean  so  much, 
or  so  little,  Mrs.  Gerry  adjusted  her  glasses,  pointed  her 
thread,  and  held  up  her  needle,  gazing  at  the  eye  as 
she  made  several  fruitless  dives  at  it  with  her  thread. 
She  could  not  find  the  eye,  though  she  tried  again  and 
again.  But  her  eyes  were  perfectly  clear,  there  were  no 
tears  in  them.  The  tears  and  the  blackness  were  in  her 
heart. 

At  last  she  rose.  She  folded  her  work  and  placed  it 
in  the  chest  of  drawers.  She  went  to  the  window  and 
looked  through  it.  Mingled  with  her  other  thoughts  was 
the  thought  that  she  ought  to  sprinkle  the  clothes  for  to- 
morrow's ironing. 

But  she  was  looking  for  Moore.     If  he  came,  she  was  to 

be  very  kind  to  him.     He  was  only  like  all  the  rest ;  f  he 

I  could  not  be  hopelessly  faithful.     But  why  should  he  be? 

iJThat  was  not  like  human  nature.     It  was  one  of  the  happy 

truths  about  human  nature  that  it  could  turn  its  hopes  and 

I  its  happiness  into  different  channels.     Perhaps   the  tide 


78  OUT   OF    STEP 

never  could  rise  quite  so  high  in  those  other  channels,  but 
what  of  that  ?  People  adjusted  themselves. 

Perhaps  Salome  would  adjust  herself.  With  this  thought 
there  came  to  Mrs.  Gerry's  mind  the  thought  of  Wal- 
ter Redd.  A  woman's  mind  will  wander  so  wildly  some- 
times. 

The  hours  went  on  until  it  was  supper-time.  Mrs.  Gerry 
prepared  the  meal  as  usual.  Since  Moore  had  not  come 
again  it  was  not  probable  that  he  would  come  at  all  now. 
He  had  gone.  That  was  altogether  the  wisest  thing  for 
him  to  do.  Now,  as  after  death  or  any  other  calamity  or 
blessing,  things  would  settle  down  into  their  ordinary  course. 
That  was  one  mercy — things  had  to  settle  down,  and,  soon- 
er or  later,  people  accepted  everything. 

When  supper  was  ready  Mrs.  Gerry  went  to  the  foot  of 
the  stairs  and  called  Salome  in  precisely  the  same  tone  in 
which  she  always  called  her. 

And  Salome  came  down  directly,  and  ate  her  toast  and 
sugared  blackberries  and  drank  her  tea.  If  you  had  looked 
in  upon  the  two  as  they  sat  there  you  would  have  envied 
them  their  coseyness  and  content.  And  they  talked  about 
whether  it  would  pay  to  dry  the  seek- no -furthers,  or  let 
them  go  and  save  every  one  of  the  Porter  apples. 

And  all  the  time  they  talked  each  knew  that  the  other 
was  listening  for  a  step  that  might  come.  Mrs.  Gerry  was 
continually  saying  over  and  over  to  herself,  "  If  he  is  wise 
he  will  stay  away ;  if  he  is  wise  he  will  stay  away." 

All  the  same,  too,  she  knew  that  it  was  not  like  a  young 
man  to  stay  away.  And  why  had  he  come  at  all  ? 

The  dusk  deepened  rapidly  into  evening,  for  now  sultry 
clouds  were  heavy  in  the  west.  A  lamp  had  to  be  lighted 
that  the  supper  dishes  might  be  washed.  This  dish-wash- 
ing was  always  Salome's  duty,  and  she  performed  it  now, 
while  her  mother  secretly  watched  her,  dreading  and  yet 
longing  to  meet  her  eyes. 

Notwithstanding  her  resolution  Salome  could  not  help 
hurrying.  Once  she  stopped  to  look  out  at  the  open  door 


AT   THE   SCUDDERS'  79 

into   the  muggy  blackness  of  the  night.     It  was  raining 
heavily  by  this  time. 

"  I'm  glad  it  is  warm,"  she  said.  "  I  want  it  to  be  warm 
always.  There  is  the  bell  down  in  the  village  striking  eight, 
mother.  It  sounds  muffled,  mother,"  unconsciously  raising 
her  voice.  "  Why  does  it  sound  muffled  ?" 

"  You  know  it  always  sounds  like  that  when  the  air  is  so 
thick  and  heavy,"  explained  Mrs.  Gerry  in  a  careful  voice. 

"Oh  yes,  so  it  does.  I  had  forgotten  that.  I'm  going 
up-stairs.  Good-night !  I  hope  it  won't  be  cooler  after  the 
lightning." 

Mrs.  Gerry  rose  and  hurried  to  the  door,  reaching  it  be- 
fore her  daughter.  Her  worn  face  was  flushed,  save  that 
about  the  mouth  it  was  piteously  pale. 

"  Salome,"  she  said,  pleadingly,  "  why  won't  you  stay 
down  here  with  me  a  little  while  ?" 

-The  girl  moved  her  head  with  a  distressful  motion.     But 
she  spoke  quite  cheerfully. 

"  Please  let  me  go  up-stairs,  mother.  I  must  correct  those 
exercises,  you  know.  Good-night !  and  you  needn't  worry 
in  the  least  about  me.  I  am  very  strong.  And  you  know 
that  women,  as  well  as  men,  console  themselves." 

Salome  left  the  room,  and  her  mother  heard  her  going  up 
the  stairs. 

Sitting  there  alone,  Mrs.  Gerry  was  seized  by  the  con- 
viction that  Moore  would  return,  and,  in  spite  of  all  she 
could  do,  she  began  nervously  to  listen  and  watch  for  him. 
She  extinguished  the  light  that  she  might  better  see  the 
road  in  the  broad  and  frequent  flashes  of  thunderless  light- 
ning. At  first  the  continuous  rush  of  the  rain  made  it  im- 
possible for  her  to  hear  the  approach  of  any  one. 

She  did  not  think  of  going  to  bed.  Any  comfort,  phys- 
ical or  mental,  was  not  to  be  thought  of.  But  surely  the 
minutes  would  go  less  draggingly  if  she  sat  there  than  if 
she  were  in  bed. 

It  was  before  the  clock  struck  eleven  that  Mrs.  Gerry,  in 
one  of  the  lightning  flashes,  saw  a  figure  coming  up  the  hill 


8o  OUT   OF    STEP 

towards  the  house.  The  figure  was  running.  She  did  not 
know  if  it  were  man  or  woman,  because  it  was  in  a  black 
cloak  and  hat ;  but  she  knew  that  it  was  running. 

The  woman  stood  up  straight  and  still,  waiting.  Some- 
body was  coming  there.  By  this  time  the  rain  had  ceased. 
There  was  a  low  murmur  of  cool  wind  among  the  currant- 
bushes  in  the  yard. 

Mrs.  Gerry  had  never  believed  in  premonitions,  but  she 
had  suffered  so  much  that  now  her  nerves  were  ready  to 
play  her  any  trick.  Somebody  was  coming  to  tell  some- 
thing terrible.  That  was  not  Moore. 

She  started  towards  the  door,  stumbling  over  a  chair  and 
knocking  it  down  with  a  loud  noise.  But,  unlike  her  ordi- 
nary self,  she  would  not  wait  and  reasonably  light  a  lamp 
first. 

She  found  the  door  and  flung  it  open ;  Nely  Scudder  fell 
against  her.  She  took  hold  of  the  child's  arm  and  drew 
her  in  with  a  sort  of  repressed  violence. 

"  Who  is  sick  ?"  she  asked  in  a  whisper.  "  You  can't 
breathe.  Why  did  you  run  uphill  so  ?" 

For  Nely,  as  she  came  farther  and  farther  in  her  journey, 
had  continued  to  increase  her  pace  until  now  her  breath  was 
beating  all  through  her,  and  it  was  impossible  for  her  to 
speak  a  word.  She  leaned  up  against  the  side  of  the  door, 
her  sobbing  breath  sounding  loudly  in  the  darkness.  She 
was  afraid  that  in  her  confusion  she  might  tell  what  she 
had  promised  not  to  tell. 

"  I  want  Salome,"  she  cried  out  at  last. 

"  But  what—"  began  Mrs.  Gerry,  so  puzzled  that  she 
hardly  knew  how  to  frame  her  sentence. 

A  door  at  the  head  of  the  stairs  immediately  opened,  and 
steps  were  heard  descending. 

"  I  want  Salome  alone,"  said  Nely. 

In  the  darkness  Nely's  hand  was  grasped,  and  she  was 
drawn  up  the  stairs. 

Mrs.  Gerry  groped  her  way  into  the  kitchen,  lighted  a 
lamp,  and  sat  down  alone.  There  was  a  curious  pang  in 


AT   THE    SCUDDERS'  8 1 

her  heart  at  this  moment  that  her  daughter  was  not  with 
her,  that  she  had  withdrawn  herself.  In  the  keenness  of 
this  feeling  she  forgot  to  ask,  at  first,  why  she  had  done  it, 
and  why  it  could  possibly  be  that  Nely  should  have  come 
in  the  night  in  this  way. 

Up-stairs  in  Salome's  room  there  was  a  brilliant  light,  for 
Salome  had  been  sitting  resolutely  correcting  her  pupils' 
exercises.  She  clung  to  that  work  as  though  to  give  it  up 
would  be  something  she  could  not  bear.  Now,  however, 
her  eyes  blazed  as  she  held  Nely's  shoulders  and  looked 
down  at  her.  The  hardly  kept  self-control  left  her  so  sud- 
denly that  she  seemed  never  to  have  had  it.  She  shook 
the  girl. 

"Tell  me  quickly  !"  she  commanded. 

Nely  gasped. 

"  It's  that  man,"  she  cried.  She  shrank  away,  frightened 
by  the  gleaming  intensity  in  the  face  above  her. 

"  What !  what !"  cried  Salome.  "  Why  do  you  stop  ?  Go 
on,  I  tell  you  !" 

And  Salome  clutched  more  tightly  the  slender  shoulders 
and  shook  them  again. 

"  The  one  I  saw  in  the  pine  woods  with  you,"  Nely  stam- 
mered on  ;  "  we  found  him  'most  dead.  He  doesn't  know 
anything.  I  thought  you'd  want  me  to  come  and  tell  you ; 
I  thought — oh,  dear,  I'm  so  frightened  !" 

Nely  staggered  back,  released  from  the  hands  which  had 
held  her.  The  girl  began  to  cry  loudly  and  bitterly  as  she 
used  to  do  when  a  child.  But  Salome  did  not  mind  her  in 
the  least.  She  had  turned  and  taken  the  lamp.  With  it  in 
her  hand  she  looked  vaguely  at  Nely,  thinking  of  one  nec- 
essary question  to  ask. 

"  Where  is  he  ?" 

"  At  our  house." 

Then  Salome  rapidly  went  down  the  stairs.  Her  mother 
met  her  with  a  lamp  in  her  own  hand.  Salome  glanced 
back  at  Nely,  who  was  following,  sobbing  with  excitement. 

"  Tell  her,"  said  Salome.     She  took  a  shawl  from  a  chair 


82  OUT   OF   STEP 

in  the  little  entry,  wrapping  it  round  her  and  shivering  as 
she  went. 

Her  mother  thought  it  strange  that  her  daughter  should 
say  that  it  was  cold.  She  watched  her  hurrying  down  the 
path  to  the  road,  the  increasing  light  of  the  cool  blue  space 
in  the  northwest  showing  her  form  against  the  blackness  of 
the  bushes. 

Presently,  perhaps,  Mrs.  Gerry  would  follow  her.  But 
now  she  turned  towards  Nely,  who  had  not  yet  sufficient 
presence  of  mind  to  go  with  Salome,  as  she  had  meant 
to  do. 

She  replied  more  coherently  to  Mrs.  Gerry's  terse  ques- 
tioning, and  in  five  minutes  these  two  were  on  the  road 
towards  Mr.  Scudder's  house. 

Can  you  not  think  what  dreadful  thought  was  foremost 
in  the  woman's  mind  as  she  walked  over  the  wet  highway  ? 

She  was  thinking  of  Walter  Redd's  face  and  his  words 
as  he  had  sat  in  his  buggy  and  talked  to  her.  But  for  all 
that,  she  knew  that  Walter  Redd  could  not  do  an  evil  thing. 

Far  in  advance  of  them,  Salome  was  nearing  the  Scudder 
house,  with  but  one  feeling,  it  seemed,  ruling  her — the  feel- 
ing that  spurred  her  on  to  annihilate  space.  Her  feet  were 
so  heavy,  they  dragged  so  upon  the  highway,  or  she  thought 
they  did,  that  her  hot  brain  grew  hotter  and  wilder  with 
every  moment  that  passed. 

When  she  opened  the  door  leading  into  the  Scudder 
kitchen  she  saw  only  Mr.  Scudder,  asleep  on  the  lounge. 
She  could  dimly  discern  his  figure  by  the  light  that  came 
from  the  next  room. 

She  stepped  within  and  leaned  against  the  wall. 

"  Is  that  you,  Nely  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Scudder's  voice. 

There  was  no  answer.  Just  now  Salome  was  literally 
unable  to  speak. 

The  question  was  repeated,  and  then  Mrs.  Scudder  rose 
from  the  chair  where  she  was  sitting  near  Moore's  bed  and 
came  forward.  She  had  been  wishing  that  she  had  not  let 
Nely  go  out,  and  was  beginning  to  be  anxious  about  her. 


AT   THE   SCUDDERS'  83 

Nely  was  such  an  excitable  child ;  Mrs.  Scudder  in  her  se- 
cret heart  was  rather  proud  of  the  fact  that  Nely  was  ex- 
citable ;  it  made  her  so  different  from  her  father  and  moth- 
er; but  the  mother  often  mentioned  this  excitability  in  a 
deprecating  way  to  the  neighbors. 

Mrs.  Scudder's  large,  plump  face  was  worn  and  anxious 
now  as  it  appeared  in  the  open  doorway  with  the  light  be- 
hind it.  She  thought  it  was  trying  of  Nely  not  to  answer 
her.  She  peered  forward,  at  first  not  being  able  to  see  any- 
thing. Then  her  voice  rang  sharply. 

"  Nely !" 

She  was  frightened. 

"  It  isn't  Nely,"  said  Salome.  But  she  could  not  yet  step 
forward.  Now  that  she  had  reached  the  house  there  was  a 
sudden  weight  upon  her.  She  remained  leaning  against  the 
wall.  She  had  let  her  shawl  slip  from  her,  and  it  lay  in  a 
heap  at  her  feet.  She  had  worn  no  hat. 

Mrs.  Scudder  could  not  recognize  the  voice.  Bewildered, 
she  stepped  back  and  took  the  light  from  the  stand,  return- 
ing to  the  kitchen  with  it. 

"  It  ain't  S'lome  !"  she  exclaimed. 

Her  slow,  placid  mind  had  great  difficulty  in  even  the  at- 
tempt to  adjust  itself.  Things  were  happening  at  such  a 
rate  that  it  was  quite  useless  to  try  to  understand  them. 
/  And  in  all  her  life  things  had  never  happened  before:  s 

The  girl  at  the  door  had  made  no  response.  Salome's 
entire  powers  were  at  work  to  bring  to  her  the  strength  to 
walk  into  that  room  where  Mrs.  Scudder  had  been  sitting. 
She  knew  directly  that  Moore  must  be  in  that  room. 

In  another  moment  she  advanced  a  step.  It  did  not 
seem  necessary  or  worth  while  to  make  any  reply  to  Mrs. 
Scudder.  Indeed,  she  was  hardly  aware  that  the  woman 
had  spoken. 

The  girl  extended  her  hand  to  push  Mrs.  Scudder  from 
the  doorway,  which  she  almost  filled. 

"  Oh,  land  !"  cried  the  other,  "  you  mustn't  go  in  there, 
S'lome !  He's  a  stranger ;  I'll  tell  you  about  it.  It's  awful 


84  OUT   OF   STEP 

curious,  'n'  'tain't  much  we  know.  But  where  do  you  s'pose 
Nely  is?  I'm  real  worried.  You  'ain't  seen  her,  have  you  ?" 

Salome  thrust  Mrs.  Scudder  gently  aside. 

"  I've  seen  Nely,"  she  answered.  She  was  looking  at  the 
still  form  on  the  bed. 

"  Oh,  you  have  ?  There  'ain't  nothin'  happened  to  her, 
then  ?" 

"  No." 

Salome  advanced  and  sat  down  in  the  chair  Mrs.  Scudder 
had  been  sitting  in.  She  leaned  forward  with  her  arms  rest- 
ing on  the  bedside,  her  eyes  upon  Moore's  unresponsive 
face. 

Mrs.  Scudder  had  kept  the  lamp  in  her  hand.  She  now 
stood  with  it  raised  somewhat,  so  that  its  light  was  shed 
upon  the  girl  sitting  there.  She  was  looking  at  Salome. 

In  a  moment  she  stepped  forward  softly  and  set  the  lamp 
upon  the  stand.  Then  she  walked  noiselessly  from  the 
room  and  sank  into  a  chair  in  the  darkened  kitchen. 

Tears  were  rolling  down  the  woman's  face.  There  was  a 
strange  pang  in  her  heart. 

She  had  never  seen  upon  any  face  the  look  that  was  upon 
Salome's.  For  a  brief  time  the  sight  of  it  took  from  her  all 
bewilderment  and  curiosity.  At  first  she  could  not  ask  her- 
self how  Salome  had  known  this  man  was  here,  or  how  she 
had  known  him. 

As  Mrs.  Scudder  was  trying  to  get  her  handkerchief 
from  some  obscure  fold  in  her  gown,  and  as  in  the  endeavor 
the  tears  ceased  to  flow,  she  heard  footsteps  outside.  She 
was  conscious  of  a  fleeting  sense  of  impatience  with  her 
husband  that  he  could  continue  to  snore  when  she  was  the 
subject  of  so  much  emotion. 

She  gave  up  trying  to  find  her  pocket  and  her  handker- 
chief, and  went  to  the  door,  admitting  Nely  and  Mrs.  Gerry. 

"  I  do  declare !"  cried  Mrs.  Scudder,  helplessly,  going 
back  to  her  seat  without  thinking  whether  this  new  visitor 
would  be  seated.  "  It  does  seem  's  if  my  mind  was  goin'," 
she  continued. 


AT   THE   SCUDDERS'  85 

Mrs.  Gerry's  face  and  figure  seemed  strangely  composed 
as  she  also  walked  across  the  kitchen  to  the  room  her 
daughter  had  just  entered.  She  carefully  avoided  glancing 
at  Salome. 

Mrs.  Gerry  had  reached  that  age  when  she  knew  posi- 
tively that  she  could  not,  with  outward  calmness,  bear  some 
\  things.  And  she  knew  now  that  she  could  not  bear  to  see 
Salome's  face. 

She  walked  to  the  bedside,  and  for  a  moment  bent  over 
the  bed.  Then  she  went  back  and  joined  Mrs.  Scudder. 

"Do  you  know  what  has  happened  to  him?"  she  asked. 
Her  tone  was  calm  ;  it  was  pitched  too  high,  however. 

Before  Mrs.  Scudder  had  done  more  than  shake  her  head, 
Mrs.  Gerry  went  on :  "  Nely  told  me  all  she  knew  as  we 
were  coming ;  but  I  thought  you  might  have  learned  some- 
thing more." 

Mrs.  Scudder  shook  her  head  again.  Now  she  remarked 
that  she  s'posed  this  young  man  must  be  a  friend. 

"  Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Gerry,  promptly,  and  with  an  appearance 
of  explaining  everything.  "  We  knew  him  in  Florida.  He 
was  very  kind  to  us.  I  thought  a  great  deal  of  him.  He 
had  come  out  here  to  call  on  us.  It's  dreadful." 

"  It's  jest  as  dretful  's  it  can  be,"  responded  Mrs.  Scud- 
der, "  V  I'm  all  upset  with  it.»  The  doctor  he's  gone  to 
telegraph  round.  He's  goin'  to  telegraph  to  the  girl  he's 
engaged  to.  I  s'pose  she'll  be  comin'  out  here.  I  do  hope 
we  sh'll  have  strength  to  go  through  with  it.  I  d'  know 
whether  he'll  live  or  die.  Dr.  Sands  said  'twan't  no  use  to 
give  no  medicine.  He  said  might 's  well  give  medicine  to  a 
dead  woodchuck.  You  know  his  way.  I  don't  like  that 
kind  of  a  way  in  a  doctor  myself ;  but  some  folks  think 
there  ain't  nobody  like  Dr.  Sands." 

Mrs.  Scudder  had  a  recurrence  of  a  desire  to  reach  her 
handkerchief.  She  was  not  in  a  teary  state  now,  but  she 
felt  frustrated,  and  she  could  not  tell  how  soon  the  tears 
might  come  again.  She  stood  up  and  brought  her  skirt 
round  with  a  violent  movement,  absolutely  found  the  pocket 


86  OUT   OF   STEP 

this  time,  and  abstracted  from  it  a  piece  of  white  cloth  with 
a  wide  pink  border. 

"I'm  sure  I  wish  I  could  be  as  ca'm  's  you  are,  Mis' 
Gerry,"  she  said,  with  some  reproach  in  her  tone.  "  I  did 
think  I  was  likely  to  be  's  ca'm  's  'most  anybody,  but  my 
nerves  are  all  kind  of  shook  up,  somehow." 

Mrs.  Gerry  did  not  reply.  She  was  standing  so  that  she 
could  see  her  daughter's  figure  with  its  head  drooped  for- 
ward towards  the  bed.  With  a  revulsion  of  feeling,  she  now 
felt  she  must  be  where  she  could  see  Salome. 

Mrs.  Scudder's  curiosity  began  to  rise  above  her  real 
sympathy  and  kindness.  She  thought  that  there  were  a 
good  many  things  that  she  did  not  understand,  and  it 
seemed  that  she  had  a  right  to  understand,  since  her  family 
had  been  distinguished  by  finding  that  man  lying  insensible 
by  the  road-side.  She  didn't  see  how  she  could  have  her 
house  turned  into  a  hospital  and  everything  going  wrong, 
and  she  not  able  to  make  butter  at  her  usual  time,  and 
likely 's  not  having  to  do  without  pies  for  days  at  a  time — she 
didn't  see  how  she  could  endure  all  this  and  not  know  the 
very  ins  and  outs  of  the  acquaintance  of  the  Gerrys  with 
that  young  man ;  and  he  engaged  to  another  young  woman 
who  called  him  "  My  dearest,"  and  who  signed  herself  "  Al- 
ways your  Portia."  * 

And  it  was  perfectly  plain  that  Salome  loved  him. 

Mrs.  Scudder's  sluggish  heart  almost  thrilled  at  this  won- 
derful complication  ;  it  also  swelled  somewhat  with  pride  at 
the  conviction  which  now  suddenly  came  to  her  that  her 
Nely  must  have  known  something;  her  Nely  must  have 
been  able  to  keep  a  secret. 

Nely,  with  skirts  heavily  wet  up  to  her  knees,  was  sitting 
in  a  chair  and  leaning  her  head  against  the  wall.  At  first 
she  had  placed  herself  where  she  could  see  Salome  as  she 
sat  by  the  bed  in  the  next  room.  But  immediately  there 
came  over  her  a  sense  that  it  was  something  like  sacrilege 
for  her  to  watch  Salome. 

She  wondered  how  her  mother  could  talk.     She  won- 


AT    THE   SCUDDERS'  87 

dered  how  her  father  could  lie  there  and  sleep.  To  her  the 
whole  air  was  electrical. 

Mrs.  Gerry,  standing  upright,  not  thinking  of  sitting,  her 
eyes  on  Salome's  drooped  head,  was  aware  that  some  one 
was  touching  her. 

She  turned  enough  to  see  her  hostess  standing  close  to 
her.  Mrs.  Scudder  nodded  towards  the  girl  sitting  by  the  bed. 

"  Does  she  know  he's  engaged  ?"  she  whispered,  loudly. 

There  was  no  reply  and  no  movement  from  Mrs.  Gerry. 

"  I  seen  a  letter,"  went  on  Mrs.  Scudder,  quite  carried 
away  by  the  romantic  interest  of  her  subject,  and  by  the 
possibilities  and  complications  of  it.  "  The  doctor  took  it 
out  of  his  pocket.  There  'tis  on  the  stand  by  the  lamp.  I 
jest  looked  at  it.  You  know  the  doctor  had  to  find  out 
something'  bout  him,  so  's  to  telegraph  round.  Oh,  my !" 
here  Mrs.  Scudder's  prominent  eyes  bulged  out  still  more. 
"  It's  a  reg'lar  love-letter !  I  didn't  know  there  was  such 
love-letters  only  in  novels.  I  hope  Nely  won't  see  it.  I 
s'pose  some  folks  take  such  notions  as  that  'bout  love. 
It  was  put  together  real  pretty  'n'  interestin',  too ;  'twas 
real  bright  in  some  places.  The  doctor  he's  sent  for  that 
woman." 

Here  there  was  a  very  slight  movement  on  Mrs.  Gerry's 
part. 

"  I  s'pose  you  know  all  about  that  woman  ?" 

"  I  saw  her  in  Florida." 

Mrs.  Gerry's  effort  in  speaking  was  so  visible  that  Nely, 
who  at  first  had  paid  no  attention  to  the  two  women,  now 
sprang  from  her  seat  and  pulled  her  mother's  skirt. 

"  Do  stop,  mother !"  she  exclaimed. 

Here  Mrs.  Gerry,  who  was  really  unable  to  stand  any 
longer,  turned  to  the  nearest  chair.  She  was  thinking  that 
she  had  believed  Mrs.  Scudder  to  be  very  kind-hearted; 
now  she  had  a  savage  wish  to  do  an  injury  to  a  woman  who 
could  torture  in  that  way. 

"  Go  'n'  change  your  clo'es  this  minute  !"  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Scudder  to  Nely.  "  You'll  git  your  death  er  cold  !" 


88  OUT   OF   STEP 

The  speaker  was  provoked  that  she  had  been  interrupted. 
The  agitations  of  the  evening  were  having  the  appearance 
of  putting  the  easy-going  nature  out  of  temper.  Mrs.  Scud- 
der  was  seriously  tried  with  Mrs.  Gerry.  She  confided  to 
her  husband  later  that  she  didn't  know  that  Mis'  Gerry  was 
so  kind  of  unfeelin' ;  but  Mis'  Gerry  was  always  one  of 
them  ca'm  kind. 

The  time  crept  on  until  it  was  midnight.  As  the  clock 
struck,  Mrs.  Scudder,  who  had  been  dozing  in  her  rocker, 
having  suddenly  desisted  from  any  attempt  to  talk  with 
Mrs.  Gerry,  rose  and  declared  that  she  heard  wheels. 

Then  Mrs.  Gerry,  who  had  not  been  dozing,  answered 
that  she  guessed  it  was  the  wind  in  the  chimney.  Mrs. 
Scudder,  now  extremely  irritable,  resented  this  remark,  and 
responded  that  she  guessed  she  knew  what  was  wind  and 
what  was  wheels.  Then  she  put  her  head  back  on  the 
chair,  and  immediately  went  to  sleep  again. 

Mrs.  Gerry  had  drawn  her  chair  near  the  door  of  the  bed- 
room. For  the  last  hour  she  had  been  virtually  alone  with 
her  daughter,  for  Nely  had  at  last  gone  up -stairs,  over- 
powered, in  spite  of  all,  by  the  sleep  that  comes  to  healthy 
youth. 

It  was  chilly  now  in  these  rooms.  The  sultry  night  had 
changed.  The  wind  was  blowing  from  the  north,  and  the 
sky  was  clear  and  steel  -  blue.  The  insects  of  the  summer 
night  were  silent,  save  that  now  and  then  a  braver,  stronger 
little  creature  gave  a  small,  shrill  pipe. 

Mrs.  Gerry  sat  there.  Sometimes  a  rebellious  question- 
ing as  to  why  this  had  come  to  her  child  rose  in  her  mind. 
But  she  felt  that  such  questioning  was  wicked.  It  had 
come.  Should  she  ask  why  God  did  anything?  Surely 
God  was  trying  her  daughter.  Once  she  prayed  fiercely 
that  God  might  try  her,  torture  her,  if  He  would  only  spare 
Salome. 

But  immediately  she  suppressed  that  prayer.  She  must, 
rather,  plead  that  God  would  enable  Salome  to  bear  her 
troubles  in  a  way  that  would  be  for  her  eternal  good. 


AT   THE    SCUDDERS'  89 

Eternal  good.  That  phrase  took  its  place  in  the  woman's 
thoughts.  She  must  cling  to  that.  It  was  all  there  was. 
If  she  could  only  bring  Salome  to  think  of  it  also.  Salome 
was  so  keenly,  so  passionately  alive  to  the  present. 

Once,  overborne  by  her  anxiety,  Mrs.  Gerry  went  to  her 
daughter,  who  was  still  sitting  with  her  arms  resting  on  the 
side  of  the  bed  where  Moore  lay. 

"  Salome,"  whispered  the  mother. 

The  girl  said  "  Yes,"  without  moving  from  her  position. 

"  Can't  you  let  God  help  you  ?"  At  this  question  Salome 
looked  up  at  her  mother. 

"  I'm  not  thinking  about  God,"  she  answered. 

"  But  now,  when  you  are  suffering  so — "  said  Mrs.  Gerry. 

Salome  turned  back  towards  the  bed. 

"  I  am  thinking  of  my  love." 

She  extended  her  hand  and  touched  with  the  tips  of  her 
fingers  the  lock  of  hair  on  Moore's  forehead. 

"  God  is  nothing  to  me,"  she  said. 

Mrs.  Gerry  shuddered.  She  stood  an  instant  close  to  the 
girl,  her  eyes  strained  as  they  gazed  at  her,  her  lips  pressed 
closely  together.  Then  she  walked  silently  away  and  sat 
down  in  her  old  place. 

God  would  not  send  suffering  unless  for  some  good  pur- 
pose. God  sometimes  purified  by  fire. 

Such  sentences  Mrs.  Gerry  repeated  to  herself,  struggling 
in  a  dumb  agony  to  make  the  words  alive  with  a  comforting 
meaning,  rather  than  mere  dead  husks  with  no  life  in  them. 

Sometimes  as  she  sat  there'her  eyes  rested  on  that  square, 
flat,  white  object  upon  the  stand.  That  was  Portia  Nunaf- 
ly's  letter  to  her  lover.  And  her  lover  was  the  man  whom 
Salome  loved.  /Whether  he  lived  or  died,  Salome  must 
suffer.  And  Salome  could  suffer  so  much.  )  And  she  was 
not  one  who  would  submit,  and  be  reconciled,  and  perhaps 
consoled. 

There  was  the  sound  of  wheels  at  last.  It  was  three 
o'clock.  That  must  be  Dr.  Sands  coming  with  the  man 
he  had  sent  for. 


90  OUT   OF    STEP 

By  this  time  Mrs.  Scudder  in  her  chair  was  as  soundly 
sleeping  as  her  husband  was  upon  his  lounge.  Neither  of 
them  stirred. 

Mrs.  Gerry  went  to  the  door  and  opened  it.  In  spite  of 
all  her  strength  of  nerve  she  perceptibly  shrank  back  when 
Miss  Nunally  stepped  within  the  room. 

Miss  Nunally  was  very  pale,  and  her  lips  were  very  red. 
There  was  a  burning  spark  deep  in  each  eye,  and  a  subtle 
intensity  in  her  whole  aspect  which  made  her  presence  inde- 
scribably effective  to  the  plain  Puritan  woman  who  looked 
at  her. 


VI 

THE    ONE    HE'S    ENGAGED    TO 

Miss  NUNALLY  stood  for  the  space  of  an  instant  where 
she  had  entered,  with  the  outer  door  open,  and  the  deep 
dusk  of  the  early  morning  showing  over  the  sky  behind  her. 
Mrs.  Gerry  was  aware  of  a  dull  surprise  that  she  should 
notice  how  clear  the  stars  shone. 

Portia  had  been  holding  a  warm  mantle  about  her  shoul- 
ders, her  bare,  ringed  hand  closely  grasping  it.  Now  she 
dropped  the  mantle.  She  extended  her  hand,  mechanically. 

Mrs.  Gerry  felt  a  disinclination  to  touch  the  hand,  re- 
proving herself  meanwhile  that  she  should  have  that  feeling. 

"  Isn't  this  the  place  ?"  asked  the  girl.     "  He  is  here  ?" 

Mrs.  Gerry  framed  an  inaudible  "  Yes  "  upon  her  lips, 
and  drew  back  a  little. 

Portia  looked  about  her.  Her  gaze  remained  fixed  upon 
the  open  bedroom  door.  Every  line  of  her  figure  showed 
how  tense  she  was. 

"  The  telegram  said :  '  Badly  hurt ;  come  to  Dwight 
Scudder's.'  I  did  not  lose  any  time.  Is  he — " 

She  was  plainly  unable  to  go  on. 

Mrs.  Gerry  pushed  a  chair  towards  the  new-comer,  who 
sat  down  in  it.  But  she  rose  immediately.  The  tenseness 
seemed  relaxing,  and  a  tremor  was  taking  its  place.  She 
made  two  or  three  aimless  steps  about  the  room.  It  was 
strange,  Mrs.  Gerry  thought,  that  even  now  all  Miss  Nu- 
nally's  movements  were  characterized  by  her  old  indepen- 
dent grace  of  motion. 

The  girl  came  close  to  the  woman,  and  took  hold  of  her 
arm. 


92  OUT  OF   STEP 

"  Is  he  alive  ?"  she  whispered. 

Mrs.  Gerry  nodded. 

"  Then  let  me  go  to  him.  He  is  in  there  ?"  looking  tow- 
ards the  open  door. 

The  mother  was  thinking  of  her  daughter.  She  was  try- 
ing to  arrange  some  way  in  which  to  shield  her,  although 
she  knew  perfectly  how  useless  was  such  an  attempt.  She 
moved  gently  between  her  companion  and  the  door. 

"  He  will  not  know  you,"  she  said.     "  Don't  go." 

"  Not  know  me  ?"  with  a  slight  emphasis  on  the  last  word. 
Then  her  face  lighted  as  she  continued,  "  Yes,  he  will  know 
me.  Because  I  love  him  so  well  he  must  know  me." 

Mrs.  Gerry  shrank  somewhat  as  she  heard  these  words 
and  the  tone  in  which  they  were  spoken.  At  that  moment 
she  knew  that  she  had  not  before  given  Portia  Nunally 
credit  for  a  certain  capability. 

When  she  had  been  told  that  Portia  was  engaged  to 
Moore,  she  had  thought  that  for  some  reason  it  suited  Por- 
tia to  be  engaged  to  that  young  man.  Portia  was  quite 
accustomed  to  engagements — not  that  Moore  was  not  one 
who  might  easily  be  loved. 

But  from  this  moment  Mrs.  Gerry's  attitude  of  mind 
towards  Miss  Nunally  underwent  a  change — a  change  quite 
as  likely  to  be  wrong  as  the  attitude  she  had  known  before. 
But  Mrs.  Gerry  could  not  be  aware  of  that  fact.  She  could 
not,  from  the  very  nature  of  things,  have  any  true  concep- 
tion of  a  nature  like  Miss  Nunally's. 

Portia  pressed  gently  forward  until  Mrs.  Gerry  had 
stepped  aside.  Why  should  she  uselessly  try  to  keep  those 
two  girls  apart  ? 

Portia  paused  abruptly  when  she  was  where  she  could 
look  into  the  room.  She  saw  Moore  lying  there,  and  Sa- 
lome sitting  by  him.  Salome  was  leaning  forward  as  she 
had  been  doing,  but  her  head  was  now  bowed  on  the  arms 
which  rested  on  the  bed. 

A  crimson  so  deep  that  it  was  almost  purple  rose  up  to 
Portia's  brow,  and  then  she  became  very  pale.  The  spark 


THE    ONE    HE  S    ENGAGED    TO  93 

in  her  eyes  grew  more  intense  ;  her  short  upper  lip,  which 
so  often  had  a  scornful  aspect,  was  now  drawn  down  sharp- 
ly, giving  her  whole  face  a  look  so  foreign  to  it  that  it  al- 
most seemed  another  face. 

After  that  instant's  abrupt  pause  she  walked  into  the 
room  and  up  to  the  foot  of  the  bed.  She  placed  her  hands 
on  the  foot-board,  but  lightly  placed  them  there,  as  if  she 
were  resolved  to  sustain  herself  upright  unaided,  whatever 
the  strain  upon  her. 

She  looked  for  a  long,  absorbed  moment  at  Moore's  face 
as  it  lay  so  peacefully  on  the  pillow.  She  drew  her  breath  in 
sharply,  her  countenance  still  retaining  that  drawn  expression. 

Has  it  ever  been  stated  of  this  woman  that  she  knew, 
better  than  most,  the  value  of  an  emotion  ?  She  knew 
when  to  give  way  to  it. 

She  remained  standing  there  after  she  had  ceased  look- 
ing at  Moore.  But  she  was  now  gazing  at  Salome,  who 
was  not  yet  conscious  of  this  presence  which  had  arrived 
almost  noiselessly. 

Miss  Nunally's  face  changed  from  all  softness  to  that 
peculiar  hard,  steel-like  appearance  which  a  blond  face  can 
take  on  so  much  more  strongly  than  any  other. 

But  her  movements  were  as  gentle  as  possible  as  she 
walked  round  to  the  girl  by  the  bed  and  bent  over  her. 

Salome  started  up  quickly,  glanced  at  Portia,  braced 
herself  to  stand  quietly,  and  then  said,  in  a  low  voice : 

"  So  you  have  come." 

It  was  a  very  strange  thing  which  happened  then. 

The  instant  that  Portia's  eyes  rested  on  Salome's  face 
every  particle  of  that  hard  look,  that  something  like  tiger- 
ish combativeness,  vanished. 

"  Oh  !"  murmured  Portia,  and  the  two  girls  gazed  at 
each  other  intently. 

It  was  at  this  time  that  Mrs.  Scudder,  perhaps  moved  by 
a  sense  of  the  happening  of  more  unusual  things,  stirred 
uneasily  in  her  chair,  and  then  rose,  not  really  awake,  but 
in  an  awakening  state. 


94  OUT   OF   STEP 

She  gazed  hazily  at  Mrs.  Gerry.  Then,  hearing  Mr. 
Scudder  snoring  on  the  lounge,  she  remarked  that  men 
always  would  sleep  through  everything.  For  her  part,  she 
wished  that  she  was  made  up  so,  but — 

At  this  point  she  interrupted  herself  to  ask : 

"  Has  he  come  to  ?" 

"  No." 

Mrs.  Scudder  rubbed  her  eyes. 

"  I  d'  know  but  we  better  try  mustard  ag'in  on  the  back 
of  his  neck,"  she  said. 

Mrs.  Gerry  made  no  response  to  this.  She  felt  that  she 
could  not  spare  any  of  her  strength  for  useless  conversa- 
tions with  any  one. 

Mrs.  Scudder  advanced  to  the  clock  and  scrutinized  it. 

"  Mercy  sake  !"  she  cried.  "  It's  past  three.  I  d'  know 
but  I  must  have  lost  myself."  She  glanced  at  Mrs.  Gerry. 
"  P'raps,"  she  went  on,  "  if  I  mix  a  teaspoonful  of  cayenne 
with  the  mustard  it  '11  bring  him  to.  It  does  seem  's  if  we 
ought  to  be  doin'  something.  Was  he  subject  to  any  kind  of 
spells,  Mrs.  Gerry,\vhen  you  knew  him  in  Floridy  ?  Dr.  Sands 
ain't  above  mistakes  more  'n  the  rest  of  us.  Mebby  it's  a 
spell  he's  got.  You  remember  old  Major  Lucas  that  lived  in 
the  aidge  of  the  Dillon  neighborhood,  don't  you,  Mis'  Gerry?" 

Mrs.  Gerry  sat  down.  She  acknowledged  that  she  re- 
membered Major  Lucas. 

"  You  rec'lect  them  spells  he  uset  to  have  ?  He'd  lay  for 
hours  'thout  knowin'  nothin',  'n'  then  he'd  come  to  'n'  go  to 
work  's  if  nothin'  'd  happened.  Dr.  Sands  don't  always 
know.  I  s'pose  he's  jest  like  other  doctors,  'n'  wants  to 
cut  somebody  open.  He  wants  to  cut  that  young  man's 
head  open.  He's  sent  for  that  Boston  man.  I  always  did 
go  ag'inst  operations.  I  guess  I'll  try  the  mustard  'n'  cay- 
enne. You  look  real  tired,  Mis'  Gerry.  Why  don't  you 
lop  right  down  in  this  chair  'n'  shet  your  eyes  jest  a  minute  ? 
I'm  goin'  to  make  a  cup  of  green  tea.  If  there's  goin'  to 
be  an  operation  here  green  tea  won't  be  none  too  strong  to 
brace  me  up.'' 


THE   ONE    HE  S    ENGAGED    TO  95 

As  Mrs.  Scudder  finished  her  remarks  she  walked  to  the 
door  of  the  bedroom. 

She  uttered  an  exclamation,  and  then  put  her  hand  over 
her  mouth  as  if  to  keep  back  a  stream  of  cries  of  astonish- 
ment that  were  ready  to  burst  forth  at  sight  of  the  stranger 
there. 

After  a  moment  she  turned  towards  Mrs.  Gerry,  bending 
over  her  and  whispering  hoarsely,  "  Is  she  the  girl  he's  en- 
gaged to  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  I  declare  !  I  must  have  lost  myself,  or  I  sh'd  have  heard 
her  come.  Ain't  it  interestin'  ?  Be  they  both  in  love  with 
him  ?" 

As  there  was  no  reply  to  this  question,  Mrs.  Scudder  re- 
peated that  it  was  the  most  interestin'  thing  she'd  ever  heard 
of.  It  was  more  interestin'  than  when  Lyddy  Mann  and 
Silas  Loring  had  been  married  jest  as  Silas  was  breathin' 
his  last  breath  in  consumption.  Lyddy  had  made  the  pret- 
tiest widow  that  had  ever  been  seen  in  the  North  meetin'- 
house. 

Mrs.  Gerry  drew  a  long  breath  as  the  sound  of  wheels 
was  now  unmistakably  heard  down  the  road.  The  wheels 
were,  as  Mrs.  Scudder  said,  "jest  tearin'  along  the  road," 
and  they  came  into  the  yard. 

Dr.  Sands  entered  quickly.  He  was  followed  by  another 
man,  whose  movements  were  so  deliberate  by  contrast  that 
they  appeared  slow.  Dr.  Sands  walked  directly  into  the 
bedroom,  making  an  instant's  pause  as  he  saw  the  two  girls 
standing  by  the  bed.  He  knew  Salome.  The  other  must 
be  that  one  to  whom  he  had  wired.  He  was  directly  inter- 
ested in  her.  But  why  the  deuce  was  Salome  Gerry  there  ? 
Had  she  come  with  her  mother  ?  Women  were  always  send- 
ing for  each  other. 

He  nodded  at  Salome.  He  said  respectfully  to  Portia, 
"  I  suppose  you  are  Miss  Nunally?" 

Salome  walked  away  and  went  and  stood  by  her  mother. 
It  was  plainly  not  she  who  had  any  right  as  belonging  to 


96  OUT   OF   STEP 

Moore.  Miss  Nunally  only  bowed  her  assent  to  the  doc- 
tor's question.  Then  she  asked,  "  May  we  hope  ?  Tell  me 
the  truth  quickly — quickly." 

As  the  man  answered,  he  was  saying  to  himself  that  he 
was  devilish  sorry  for  that  young  fellow.  A  girl  like  this 
now — 

Aloud  he  said  that  nothing  could  be  told  yet.  Still  he 
believed  that  there  was  much  reason  to  hope  —  but  the 
brain  had  been  injured. 

Here  he  was  interrupted  by  Portia,  who  said,  eagerly : 

"He  must  have  the  best  skill  —  the  best.  Pardon  me, 
but  you  know  that  is  absolutely  imperative." 

"  Certainly ;  I  have  sent  for  the  best.  There  is  no  man 
in  the  country  who  stands  higher  in  this  branch  of  the  pro- 
fession than  Dr.  Jennings." 

He  looked  at  the  other  doctor,  who  had  come  into  the 
little  room  and  was  standing  with  his  hands  behind  him, 
his  eyes  upon  the  figure  on  the  bed. 

Dr.  Jennings  bowed  absently.  Then  he  glanced  at  Por- 
tia, withdrew  his  eyes,  glanced  again,  then  said  that  if  the 
ladies  would  now  kindly  withdraw,  except  the  one  in  a  black 
gown  whom  he  had  just  seen  in  the  other  room —  He  did 
not  appear  to  think  it  necessary  to  finish  his  sentence. 

The  woman  in  the  black  gown,  of  course,  was  Mrs. 
Gerry. 

When  this  selection  of  the  doctor  from  Boston  was  made 
known  to  Mrs.  Scudder  she  had  a  feeling  of  resentment, 
which,  however,  she  quickly  smothered.  She  did  allow 
herself  to  say  that  if  she  hadn't  been  as  ready  as  could  be  to 
make  mustard  plasters,  she  shouldn't  have  thought  strange 
of  what  that  Boston  doctor  had  said.  And  she  guessed 
they'd  better  go  up-stairs,  them  that  wa'n't  wanted.  She'd 
be  ready  to  tell  Mis'  Gerry  where  everything  was  if  they 
wanted  anything.  She  had  some  green  salve  that  was  con- 
sidered the  very  best — 

"  Mother,"  said  an  imperative  young  voice  from  the  stair- 
way. 


THE   ONE    HE  S   ENGAGED   TO  97 

When  Nely  called  her  mother  in  that  manner  Mrs.  Scud- 
der  did  not  delay  in  her  response. 

It  was  early  daylight  now.  Mr.  Scudder  had  risen  has- 
tily from  the  lounge,  and  had  at  first  manifested  some  shame- 
faced signs  of  remorse  at  having  so  undeniably  slept.  He 
went  to  the  barn,  after  having  made  inquiries  and  professed 
his  readiness  to  do  anything  he  could  do. 

Now  the  farm-house  seemed  to  bear  upon  its  very  roof- 
shingles  signs  that  some  strange  thing  was  going  on  within 
its  quiet  walls. 

Mrs.  Gerry  noiselessly  obeyed  the  requests  of  the  sur- 
geon. Once  Dr.  Jennings  said  that  he  was  sorry  there  was 
no  hospital  nearer. 

It  was  almost  the  only  remark  he  made,  save  to  give  his 
brief  orders  to  Mrs.  Gerry  or  to  Dr.  Sands. 

The  woman  stood  unflinchingly  by  as  Moore's  inert  length 
was  put  upon  a  long,  raised  board.  Her  hand  was  steady, 
her  face  sternly  attentive.  She  obeyed  as  an  intelligent 
soldier  obeys,  instantly  and  without  visible  questioning. 
But  all  the  time  she  was  possessed  by  one  thought ;  so  pos- 
sessed by  it  that  she  even  reproved  herself  for  a  sort  of  un- 
feeling quality,  because  she  could  only  think  of  her  daugh- 
ter as  waiting  up-stairs.  Was  it  strange  that  this  mother 
should  think  that  Salome  ought  not  to  suffer  so  ?  That  it 
was  worse  for  Salome  to  suffer  than  for  another  ?  Would 
any  one  have  called  this  woman  cold  as  she  saw  the  gleam- 
ing shears  clip  away  still  more  closely  Moore's  hair,  as  she 
watched  the  seemingly  deliberate  but  really  rapid  move- 
ments as  the  skin  was  made  "  surgically  clean  " ;  as  she 
held  the  basin  ;  as  she  saw  the  appalling  shining  of  strange 
instruments?  Perhaps  to  do  this  does  require  a  certain 
hardness,  but  it  is  a  hardness  which  is  worth  far  more  than 
all  that  soft  susceptibility  which  is  often  so  captivating — a 
hardness  which  the  world  can  ill  spare,  and  which  might 
almost  be  called  the  backbone,  the  real  stamina  of  genuine- 
tenderness. 

The  Boston  surgeon  spoke  rarely.     His  words  seemed  to 


98  OUT   OF   STEP 

drop  from  his  mouth ;  sometimes  these  words  were  mere 
technical  terms  addressed  to  Dr.  Sands,  or  a  common 
phrase  of  instruction  to  Mrs.  Gerry. 

Gradually,  and  to  her  own  great  surprise,  the  woman  be- 
came deeply  interested  in  watching  the  operation ;  in  not- 
ing the  wonderful  skill  and  deftness  which  never  made  a 
false  movement;  where  the  hands  followed  an  apparently 
unerring  judgment  with  unswerving  accuracy.  For  a  space 
she  even  forgot  Moore  as  Moore,  and  viewed  him  as  "a 
case." 

She  saw  the  bones  of  the  skull  lifted,  and  her  eyes  rested 
on  that  mysterious  matter  wherein  she  had  been  told  that 
thought  dwelt,  or  where  it  came,  or — here  Mrs.  Gerry's  usu- 
ally clear  mind  suddenly  clouded  over  in  the  wondering  and 
the  questioning  that  came  to  her.  She  felt  that  she  knew 
nothing.  But  how  much  more  did  this  man  of  marvellous 
skill  know  ?  She  was  sure  that  he  stopped  short  at  materi- 
alism. She  could  not  tell  why  she  jumped  at  that  conclu- 
sion. Yes,  this  man  with  the  deep  eyes  that  probed  into 
the  very  mysteries  and  holies  of  life  must  be  hedged  in  by 
materialism.  Death,  disintegration,  ended  all  for  him. 

Never  before  had  Mrs.  Gerry  felt  such  a  rebellion,  such 
a  struggle  for  solid  ground  whereon  to  rest  her  feet  with 
utter  firmness.  She  was  frightened  at  the  glimpse  of  what 
to  her  was  a  godless  chaos.  But  the  mood  passed  almost 
immediately.  The  habitual  thought  and  belief  of  years, 
and,  above  all,  the  strong  tendency  towards  faith  with  which 
she  was  born,  and  which  she  had  systematically  cherished 
all  her  life,  came  directly  to  her  aid. 

She  believed.  That  was  the  old  phrase  which  now  stamped 
itself  anew  upon  her  brain. 

When  the  strain  was  over  and  the  two  doctors,  with  Mr. 
Scudder's  help,  had  placed  Moore  on  the  bed  again,  Mrs. 
Gerry  walked  quickly  out  of  doors. 

She  longed  to  be  under  the  sky;  to  see  the  high  pastures 
with  their  gray  rocks.  Somehow  those  rocks  always  com- 
forted her.  They  always  looked  the  same,  and  they  were 


THE   ONE   HE'S    ENGAGED   TO  99 

hers, '  hers  by  the  right  of  years  of  love  and  acquaint- 
ance. 

She  went  down  behind  the  barn  where  no  one  could  see 
her.  But  first  she  returned  to  the  house  to  put  on  her 
"  rubbers  "  and  to  wrap  a  shawl  about  her,  for  the  wind  was 
still  blowing  clearly  from  the  north. 

The  huge,  blackened  barn  sheltered  her  from  observation 
from  the  house  or  road. 

She  walked  over  the  short,  wet  grass,  holding  up  her 
skirts  carefully,  and  yet  not  knowing  that  she  did  so.  She 
was  murmuring  words  of  prayer,  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  past- 
ure rising  towards  the  north. 

She  was  praying  for  Salome.  After  every  few  words  of 
intense  petition  she  would  feel  that  she  ought,  perhaps,  to 
reprove  herself  for  almost  seeming  to  dictate  in  what  way 
the  Lord  should  bless  her  child. 

"  But  only  if  it  seems  best  to  Thee  !" 

After  a  few  moments  she  stopped  her  walk  and  leaned 
her  arms  on  the  fence.  She  was  beginning  to  feel  a  deadly 
weariness.  She  fought  it  off,  however. 

What  if  Moore  should  die  ?  That  would  be  the  simplest 
answer  to  the  questions  of  the  situation.  At  this  moment 
Mrs.  Gerry  could  not  help  thinking  that  for  any  young  per- 
son to  die  was  glorious  gain.  It  was  to  be  taken  from  the 
unsolvable  perplexities  of  the  world.  \  If  Salome  should  die 
her  mother  was  sure  that  in  time  she  should  feel  more  and 
more  a  thankfulness  that  at  last  the  child  was  safe.  God 
would  judge  leniently  as  to  the  tendencies  His  own  hand 
had  placed  in  Salome's  soul.  And  here  again  Mrs.  Gerry 
started  away  from  the  path  of  thought  she  was  entering. 
She  had  times  of  fearing  that  her  very  tenderness  of  judg- 
ment towards  her  daughter  might  be  a  sort  of  wrong  tow- 
ards others.  She  often  recalled  the  case  of  a  young  man 
who  had  been  condemned  for  murder,  who  even  confessed 
his  crime.  His  mother  had  clung  to  him  with  a  piteous 
strength.  She  told  every  one  that  her  boy  was  different ; 
she  knew  her  boy  better  than  anybody  else  could  know  him. 


100  OUT   OF    STEP 

She  supposed  her  boy  had  done  that  deed,  "  since  he  said 
he  done  it " ;  but  it  was  different ;  it  was  not  so  bad  as  oth- 
er murders.  She  went  mad,  explaining  and  justifying,  and 
believing  in  her  boy's  real  tenderness.  She  never  stopped 
explaining  until  her  poor  crazed  brain  ceased  to  think. 

"  She  did  know  him  better,"  was  Mrs.  Gerry's  thought  now. 
"And  in  just  that  way  must  God  know  all  of  us  better." 

Then  she  shrank  back  again  from  that  thought  which 
might  lead  to  a  lax  judgment.  People  must  be  judged  ac- 
cording to  their  deeds.  That  was  all  the  way  there  was  to 
judge  them. 

"  I  must  be  very  tired,"  at  length  said  Mrs.  Gerry,  speak- 
ing aloud.  "  If  I  could  sleep  twelve  hours,  things  would 
look  different  to  me." 

She  lifted  herself  from  her  heavy  leaning  against  that  top 
rail  of  the  fence.  She  gathered  up  her  skirts  again. 

As  she  turned  to  go  towards  the  house  Miss  Nunally  came 
round  the  end  of  the  barn.  She  had  no  shawl  wrapped 
about  her,  and  no  overshoes  on  her  feet.  She  looked  so 
wretched  and  so  old  that  Mrs.  Gerry,  preoccupied  as  she 
was,  noticed  her  appearance.  But  the  woman  was  afraid 
that  she  hated  her  just  now.  And  yet  the  something  there 
was  in  Portia's  personal  presence  instantly  asserted  itself. 

Portia  paused  at  the  other  side  of  the  fence. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  she  said,  in  an  indifferent  voice. 
"  I  could  not  bear  it  in  the  house.  And  now,"  looking 
about  her,  "  I  cannot  bear  it  here." 

"We  have  to  bear  things,"  said  Mrs.  Gerry  in  her  most 
prim  manner. 

"  Do  we  ?" 

Portia's  eyes,  singularly  faded  in  this  morning  light, 
looked  vacantly  at  her  companion. 

"  Yes,  we  do.  We  all  have  dreadful  things  to  bear.  I 
don't  suppose  a  man  or  woman  ever  lived  who  did  not  have 
some  dreadful  thing  to  bear  some  time  in  his  life." 

"  Very  likely,"  was  the  response.  "  But  I  don't  know 
that  that  is  any  comfort." 


THE   ONE   HES    ENGAGED   TO  IOI 

Silence  on  Mrs.  Gerry's  part.  She  hesitated,  and  then 
she  was  about  to  turn  away. 

"  You  need  not  go  to  the  house  on  account  of  Salome," 
said  Portia.  "  She  is  asleep.  She  is  as  soundly  asleep  as 
if  she  were  only  ten  years  old." 

Mrs.  Gerry  looked  incredulous.     Portia  went  on. 

"  I  haven't  yet  suffered  quite  enough  to  sleep,  though 
that  is  one  of  the  blessings  I  used  to  command  at  will.  I 
think  I  am  losing  my  blessings." 

Miss  Nunally  now  turned  away  and  sat  down  on  a  stone, 
which  had  tumbled  from  the  wall  that  began  at  the  bars. 

"  You  ought  to  have  put  on  rubbers,"  said  Mrs.  Gerry. 

No  reply. 

"  And  a  shawl,"  added  Mrs.  Gerry. 

Portia  made  an  impatient  movement  with  one  shoulder. 

"  I  think  nature  is  insulting,"  she  said.  "  Look  at  that 
sky !  I  suppose  God  is  laughing  at  us  behind  that  sky ; 
that  is,  if  there  is  a  God." 

"  Miss  Nunally !" 

"  Mrs.  Gerry  ?" 

"  You  are  very  wicked." 

"  I  am  very  miserable." 

After  a  slight  hesitation  Mrs.  Gerry  let  down  a  rail  of  the 
bars  and  crawled  through  the  aperture.  She  took  off  her 
shawl  and  put  it  over  the  girl  sitting  there. 

"The  wind  is  so  cold,"  she  said. 

She  was  going  up  towards  the  house  when  Portia's  voice 
made  her  pause. 

"  I  know  about  Salome,"  she  said,  incisively. 

"  About  Salome  ?" 

"  Yes ;  she  told  me  what  she  had  done.  I'm  not  con- 
demning her." 

Mrs.  Gerry  stood  without  motion  awaiting  what  else 
should  be  said. 

"I  wanted  to  tell  you  that  suffering  doesn't  make  me 
good.  And  I  am  suffering.  Oh  yes,"  with  a  slight,  un- 
controllable movement,  "  I  am  suffering.  You  need  not 


102  OUT   OF    STEP 

trouble  yourself  to  try  to  answer  me.  Only  you  will  '  make 
allowances'  —  that's  what  you  call  it,  isn't  it?  —  if  I'm  not 
particularly  good.  I  don't  care  a  bit  about  being  good.  I 
never  did.  I  don't  care  a  bit  about  anything  —  only  for 
that  man  who  is  in  the  house  there,  and  who  cannot  care 
for  anybody  now.  I  care  for  him." 

As  she  talked  a  defiant  animation  had  come  to  her  as- 
pect. Her  eyes  were  no  longer  faded.  Her  face  changed 
so  much  when  she  said  "  I  care  for  him  "  that  Mrs.  Gerry 
thought  it  must  be  impossible  for  Moore  not  to  respond— 
and  he  was  engaged  to  her.  That  was  enough  for  Mrs. 
Gerry ;  only  she  felt  that  she  could  never  reckon  on  what 
Salome  would  do  under  any  circumstances. 

Miss  Nunally  rose.  She  wrapped  the  shawl  closely  about 
her  and  began  walking  aimlessly  over  the  wet  grass. 
/  "  It's  a  very  foolish  thing  to  love  when  love  brings  unhap- 
piness,"  she  said.  "  I  have  never  meant  to  love  save  for 
happiness.  Don't  you  think  that's  an  excellent  rule,  Mrs. 
Gerry?  But  I  see  you  don't.  You  are  one  of  the  rigid 
kind.  I'm  talking  because  I  have  sat  in  the  house  there 
silent  until  I  was  ready  to  do  any  dreadful  thing.  It  hurts 
to  talk,  but  one  likes  to  be  hurt.  One  likes  to  cry,  '  Oh, 
how  much  I  can  suffer !'  Mrs.  Gerry,"  suddenly  advancing 
upon  the  woman  who  had  walked  a  few  yards  to  the  shelter 
of  the  barn  that  the  wind  might  not  chill  her,  "  Mrs.  Gerry, 
what  did  the  doctors  say  to  you  ?" 

Mrs.  Gerry  tried  to  reply  promptly. 

"  They  spoke  about  Mr.  Moore's  youth.  They  told  how 
great  a  percentage  recovered." 

"A  percentage!  The  brutes!"  She  walked  again,  and 
then  stopped  in  front  of  Mrs.  Gerry.  "  I  asked  them,  and 
they  gave  me  some  words — I  don't  know  what  they  were. 
Here,  take  your  shawl.  I  am  going  on  up  into  the  pasture, 
and  I  am  not  cold.  I  have  a  fire  in  my  heart.  And  Salome 
is  asleep." 

Portia  laughed  a  little  as  she  made  this  last  statement. 

Mrs.  Gerry  vatched  the  girl  as  she  went  away  towards 


THE    ONE    HE'S    ENGAGED   TO  103 

the  upland  field,  springing  forward  as  if  there  were  super- 
abounding,  defiant  life  still  in  her  frame. 

But  in  truth  Portia  walked  so  in  order  that  she  might 
carry  out  in  her  physical  appearance  the  fierce  resentment 
that  was  in  her  soul. 

Mrs.  Gerry  went  back  to  the  house.  She  found  Mrs. 
Scudder  going  about  the  kitchen  in  large  cloth  shoes  that 
she  might  make  no  noise.  She  told  Mrs.  Gerry  that  both 
doctors  were  still  in  the  bedroom.  She  said  that  the  Boston 
man  was  going  to  send  out  two  trained  nurses  ;  u  nusses  " 
was  the  term  she  used.  She  also  said  that  if  trained  nusses 
was  as  partic'lar  about  their  victuals  as  she  had  heard  they 
was,  she  should  try  to  bear  it,  but  she  s'posed  it  would  come 
some  hard.  And  she  had  been  goin'  to  have  company. 
And  did  them  nusses  wear  uniforms  ?  She  had  been  told 
that  they  did. 

Mrs.  Gerry  did  not  know.'  Mrs.  Scudder  was  evidently 
very  much  excited.  Her  mild,  prominent  blue  eyes  were  so 
prominent  now  that  it  was  painful  to  look  at  them.  She 
was  pale,  and  a  slight  tendency  towards  hanging  down  in 
the  underlip  was  now  much  increased. 

Nely  was  cooking  some  bacon  in  a  frying-pan  on  the 
stove.  She  often  looked  at  her  mother  in  a  way  that 
showed  that  she  felt  acutely  that  that  underlip  ought  not  to 
"hang  in  that  way.  She  said  now  that  she  had  no  doubt 
that  trained  nurses  were  exactly  like  other  people,  and  she 
hoped  that  they  did  wear  a  uniform  ;  she  hoped  it  was  red ; 
she  hoped  it  was  plaid;  she  hoped  they  had  short  hair,  and 
that  they  knew  all  the  ways  there  were  to  give  people  medi- 
cine. She  was  glad,  for  her  part,  that  there  were  at  least 
two  coming ;  she  would  like  it  better  if  there  were  three. 
But  she  hated  that  long  young  man  in  there. 

"  Nely !"  said  her  mother,  in  a  hoarse  whisper  of  disap- 
proval, "  he's  dretful  sick." 

"  Oh,  I  know  that,"  still  more  recklessly,  lifting  up  a  piece 
of  bacon  on  her  fork  and  slapping  it  down  in  the  bubbling 
fat  so  that  the  cat,  sitting  close  to  her,  received  a  drop  of 


104 


OUT  OF   STEP 


the  scalding  stuff ;  "  I  know  that  well  enough,  but  I  hate 
him  all  the  same.  I  don't  love  a  person  just  because  he's 
sick  or  well.  And  that  girl  that's  engaged  to  him  that's 
come  here ;  where's  she  going  to  stay,  I  should  like  to 
know? — that  girl  with- that  kind  of  an  upper  lip  ready  to 
curl  at  anything — that  girl  who  says  eyether  and  nyether — 
where's  she  going  to  stay  ?" 

Nely,  with  her  cheeks  burning,  faced  round  with  a  knife 
and  fork  held  belligerently. 

"  I  told  Nely  she  mustn't  git  excited,"  apologetically  re- 
marked Mrs.  Scudder,  who  was  trying  to  set  the  table  for  a 
meal  that  was  neither  breakfast  nor  supper ;  "V  I  told  her 
we'd  got  to  ask  that  young  lady  to  breakfast,  if  'tis  break- 
fast, 'n'  them  doctors,  too.  It  jest  happens  that  we  ain't 
got  nothin'  in  the  house  to  speak  of.  I  was  goin'  to  cook 
up  a  lot  to-day  for  company  't  we  was  expectin'  to-morrer. 
I've  got  to  git  word  to  'em  sonie  way." 

Mrs.  Scudder,  notwithstanding  her  general  appearance  of 
mild  calmness,  was  one  who  could  become  very  much  flus- 
tered ;  and  she  knew  extremely  little  when  she  was  flustered. 
Her  husband  had  been  known  to  say  that  he'd  ruther  have 
an  earthquake  any  time  than  to  have  mar  git  flustered.  But 
then  Mr.  Scudder  had  had  no  experience  of  earthquakes. 
He  could  not  tell  but  that  they  might  be  even  more  discom- 
posing than  was  his  wife  when  she  was  disturbed. 

Mrs.  Gerry  went  noiselessly  up  the  stairs.  In  the  little 
south  chamber  she  found  Salome  lying  on  the  bed.  She 
was  still  sleeping.  Flung  upon  a  chair  were  Miss  Nunally's 
wrap  and  hat.  The  window  was  open,  and  the  branches  of  an 
old  cherry-tree  brushed  against  the  screen.  Mrs.  Gerry  stood 
a  moment  to  look  at  the  girl,  then  she  went  away  as  silently 
as  she  had  come.  In  youth  nature  stands  ready  to  assert 
itself  like  a  beneficent  power.  The  mother  was  sure  that 
Salome  had  not  slept  soundly  for  many  a  day  and  night, 
but  now  the  time  had  come. 

Mrs.  Gerry  went  back  to  the  kitchen.  Nely  had  put  the 
frying-pan  on  the  back  of  the  stove  to  keep  warm  while  she 


THE   ONE   HES    ENGAGED   TO  105 

tried  to  set  the  table.  Her  mother  hovered  over  her  mean- 
while, her  lip  drooping  more  and  more. 

Mrs.  Scudder  looked  at  Mrs.  Gerry  as  she  said  pointedly 
that  she  didn't  know,  she  was  sure,  how  many  plates  they 
needed,  and  she  was  nearly  positive  there  wa'n't  bread 
enough  to  go  'round.  She  had  meant  to  make  biscuit,  but 
somehow  she  couldn't  seem  to  git  at  it.  She  had  took  up 
the  creamy-tartar,  'n'  had  put  it  down  somewhere,  'n'  now 
she  couldn't  find  it.  She  pumped  a  pailful  of  water,  and 
then  turned  it  into  the  sink. 

"  Mother,"  said  Nely,  "  I  wish  you'd  go  to  bed ;  I  wish 
you'd  go  and  sit  in  the  parlor;  I  wish  you'd  keep  out  of 
this  kitchen  ;  and  I  don't  care  a  cent  if  there  ain't  bread 
enough  to  go  'round.  There  are  potatoes  enough,  anyway, 
and  crackers.  I  don't  want  anything  but  crackers  and 
coffee ;  and  I'll  have  a  cup  of  coffee  strong  enough  to  take 
my  head  off." 

Mrs.  Scudder  smiled  in  feeble  admiration.  She  glanced 
at  Mrs.  Gerry,  who  was  rearranging  the  plates  on  the  table 
and  bringing  dishes  from  the  pantry. 

"  I'd  know  what  I  should  do  'thout  Nely,"  she  exclaimed. 
"  But  I  wish  I  could  make  out  how  many  there  is  to  break- 
fast. We  ain't  got  nothin'  fit.  If  I  could  find  the  creamy- 
tartar — " 

"  Mother,"  cried  Nely,  pausing  to  look  round,  after  having 
brought  the  platter  for  the  bacon,  "  will  you  go  out  of  this 
kitchen  ?  You  know  you're  flustered." 

"Well,  I  know  I  be,"  was  the  response.  Mrs.  Scudder 
did  not  leave  the  room,  but  she  sat  down  and  vaguely 
watched  her  daughter  and  Mrs.  Gerry  as  they  finished  the 
preparations  for  the  meal. 

It  was  the  Boston  doctor  who  came  to  join  them,  leaving 
Dr.  Sands  with  the  patient.  Nely  quite  hated  him,  because, 
after  chopping  any  one  up,  as  she  said  to  herself,  he  could  par- 
take so  heartily  of  bacon  and  potatoes,  and  coffee  and  milk. 

While  they  were  all  still  at  the  table  Miss  Nunally  ap- 
peared in  the  doorway,  having  just  returned  from  the  past- 


106  OUT   OF   STEP 

ure.  Nely  had  put  a  plate  and  a  chair  for  this  unwelcome 
guest,  but  she  would  not  be  gracious  enough  to  make  any 
sign  now. 

Dr.  Jennings  rose  and  stepped  to  the  vacant  chair,  taking 
it  from  the  table  and  motioning  to  the  girl  in  the  doorway. 
She  advanced,  although  her  countenance  showed  no  sign 
that  she  had  seen  his  command. 

"Drink  milk,"  he  said.  He  took  the  pitcher  of  milk, 
poured  her  a  glass,  and  stood  near  until  she  had  raised  it  to 
her  lips. 

Perhaps  he  would  have  been  amused  if  he  had  seen  the 
ferocious  glance  Nely  gave  him.  But  he  resumed  his  place 
and  calmly  went  on  with  his  repast. 

An  hour  later  Dr.  Jennings  started  to  the  station.  He 
said  that  he  knew  just  the  nurses  to  send  out.  He  would 
come  himself  within  twenty -four  hours.  He  gave  some 
murmured  advice  to  Dr.  Sands  as  the  two  stood  on  the  back 
piazza..  Nely,  washing  dishes  as  noiselessly  as  she  could 
at  the  sink  near  the  open  door,  heard  the  Boston  doctor  say 
that  it  was  a  perfect  case  of —  Here  she  lost  the  word.  "  A 
good  illustration  of  — "  Nely  dropped  a  plate  with  a  loud 
splash  into  the  water. 

Those  two  men  standing  there  with  their  hands  in  their 
pockets  seemed  like  brutes  to  her.  She  was  glad  when  only 
Dr.  Sands  was  left,  and  her  father  was  driving  the  other 
towards  the  station. 

Mrs.  Scudder,  a  little  steadied  by  coffee  and  a  somewhat 
bountiful  meal,  was  not  quite  so  pendulous  as  to  the  under- 
lip,  but  she  had  not  yet  come  out  of  her  fluster.  She  had 
poured  what  there  was  left  of  the  milk  in  the  pitcher  into  a 
pan  of  bonny-clabber,  and  was  now  standing  in  the  middle 
of  the  room  bewailing  this  deed. 

Mr.  Scudder's  last  remark  to  his  daughter  before  he  had 
driven  away  had  been  to  ask  her  if  she  couldn't  somehow 
work  it  so's  to  git  her  mother  to  se'  down  somewheres  till 
she  come  out  of  her  fluster.  He  said  he  didn't  want  all  the 
victuals  in  the  house  mixed  up.  Things  were  mixed  enough 


THE   ONE    HES    ENGAGED   TO  107 

there  now,  V  he  didn't  know  how  they  sh'd  come  out  when 
them  misses  come.  There  was  one  thing — Nely  'd  have  to 
leave  school  for  a  spell ;  for  what  with  a  man  with  his  skull 
cut  open,  'n'  mar  flustered,  V  trained  nusses,  he  guessed 
their  hands  'd  be  about  full. 

Nely  did  succeed  in  inducing  her  mother  to  go  into  the 
dark,  close  parlor  and  lie  down  on  the  narrow  horse-hair 
sofa. 

Mrs.  Scudder  submitted  now  to  the  guidance  of  the  girl. 
She  told  Nely  that  if  she  could  only  keep  on  that  sofa  she 
could  most  always  have  a  nap  there. 

It  turned  out  this  morning  that  she  could  keep  on  it, 
though  the  couch  certainly  did  not  look  as  if  she  could  do 
so.  In  five  minutes  she  was  asleep,  and  Nely  and  Mrs. 
Gerry,  greatly  relieved  by  her  absence,  "  did  up  the  work  " 
rapidly  and  effectively. 

By  noon  it  appeared  that  the  news,  in  more  or  less  dis- 
torted fashion,  had  spread  over  the  neighborhood.  Slow- 
going  horses  dragging  hay  carts  or  open  wagons,  wherein 
were  men  in  more  or  less  faded  blue  overalls,  stopped  oc- 
casionally in  the  road  in  front  of  the  house.  The  men 
slowly  climbed  out  of  these  vehicles  and  came  around  to  the 
back  door,  looking  solemnly  all  over  the  house  as  they  came. 

It  was  Mrs.  Gerry  who  met  them.  Each  one  had  heard 
a  different  version;  each  one  was  agape  with  curiosity. 

Mrs.  Gerry  replied  alike  to  them  all.  She  said  that  Mr. 
Scudder  had  picked  up  a  young  man  on  his  way  to  the  vil- 
lage. The  young  man  was  unconscious.  They  didn't  know 
how  badly  he  was  hurt.  Dr.  Sands  was  there  now.  They 
were  going  to  have  two  trained  nurses.  No,  they  didn't 
know  how  he  was  hurt.  They  didn't  know  whether  he'd 
get  well  or  not. 

"  But  they  say  you  was  acquainted  with  him  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  we  knew  him  in  Florida." 

They  all  had  to  go  away  with  this  information,  which  was 
in  their  eyes,  no  information  at  all.  Some  of  them  caughf 
glimpses  of  Miss  Nunally. 


108  OUT   OF   STEP 

"  Who  was  that  strange  gal  ?" 

"  She  was  engaged  to  the  young  man.  She  had  been  sent 
for  immediately." 

" Oh !  .Kinder  tough  for  her,  ain't  it ?  Was  she  all  ready 
to  be  married  ?" 

Mrs.  Gerry  thought  that  it  was  true  that  Miss  Nunally 
was  all  ready  to  be  married. 

One  man  went  so  far  as  to  ask  particularly  if  Miss  Nu- 
nally had  got  her  wedding-dress. 

Mrs.  Gerry  did  not  know.  He  then  informed  her  that  his 
wife,  having  been  told  by  a  neighbor  who  had  already  called 
at  the  Scudders'  for  information  that  a  strange  gal  was 
there,  had  made  him  promise  to  find  out  if  the  wedding- 
gown  had  been  made. 

Nely  overheard  these  words.  She  paused  behind  Mrs. 
Gerry  and  looked  over  that  woman's  shoulder  at  the  man 
who  was  asking  for  this  information.  There  was  a  malicious 
spark  in  her  eye  as  she  said :  "  There's  the  girl  now,  Mr. 
Lincoln.  You  ask  her.  She  can  tell  you.  Then  there'll 
be  no  mistake  about  it." 

The  big,  heavily  moving  farmer  turned  slowly  about.  His 
eyes  almost  became  set  in  his  head  as  they  fixed  themselves 
upon  Portia  Nunally  advancing  from  the  barn,  where  she 
had  been  in  her  restless  movements  about  the  place. 


VII 

TWO    GIRLS 

"  I  DON'T  care  what  she  says  to  him,"  said  Nely,  grinning 
as  she  watched  Mr.  Lincoln  going  ponderously  towards 
Miss  Nunally.  "  She'll  wither  him  all  up,  and  it'll  do  him 
a  lot  of  good  to  be  withered.  I  declare  I  must  see  some- 
thing going  on  besides  doctors  cutting  people's  heads 
open." 

Nely  passed  out  into  the  open  porch,  and  stood  there 
leaning  against  a  post.  She  could  not  withhold  her  ad- 
miration from  Miss  Nunally  as  the  girl  paused  in  response 
to  a  gesture  made  by  Mr.  Lincoln ;  but  Nely's  admiration 
was  saturated  with  the  quick  and  unreasoning  hatred  that 
comes  so  often  to  youth. 

She  had  instantly  decided  in  her  own  mind  that  Miss 
Nunally  had  no  right  to  be  engaged  to  that  young  man  in 
the  bedroom.  That  young  man  belonged  to  Salome — that 
is,  if  Salome  wanted  him  to  belong  to  her.  In  the  bottom 
of  her  heart  Nely  hoped  that  Salome  did  not  want  him. 
She  felt  sure  that  it  would  make  matters  simpler  and  easier 
in  every  way  if  Salome  should  scorn  him.  But,  perhaps,  he 
was  going  to  die ;  that  solving  of  the  affair  would  simplify 
things  still  more.  Nely,  in  the  great  hardness  of  her  young 
heart,  thought  it  would  be  a  good  thing  if  that  man  died, 
and  there  was  an  end  to  it  all  in  that  way.  Yes,  he  might 
far  better  die.  What  a  curious  thing  it  was  that  those  two 
girls,  Salome  and  Miss  Nunally,  were  in  love  with  him.  Yes, 
they  certainly  were  in  love.  How  interesting  they  must  be 
to  themselves !  Nely's  mind  at  this  point  suddenly  flashed 
off  to  the  conclusion  that  Miss  Nunally,  should  Moore  die, 


110  OUT   OF   STEP 

would  be  chief  mourner,  since  Miss  Nunally  was  the  one  to 
whom  Dr.  Sands  had  telegraphed. 

Portia  was  now  standing  before  Mr.  Lincoln  and  looking 
at  him.  He  was  dully  aware  that  he  had  never  before  seen 
a  woman  in  the  least  like  this.  There  was  something  about 
her  that  made  his  small  eyes  brighten  as  he  gazed.  And 
some  dim  sense  of  her  insolence  stung  him  somewhat.  But 
it  was  interesting  to  see  her.  Of  course  she  must  be  a  bad 
woman  somehow,  for  Matthew  Lincoln  had  been  instructed 
for  the  last  thirty  years  by  his  wife  that  it  was  bad  women 
who  were  by  far  the  most  likely  to  be  interesting.  Mr. 
Lincoln  was  positively  sure,  by  the  light  of  this  bringing 
up,  that  his  wife  was  not  a  bad  woman,  since  she  was  not 
in  the  least  interesting. 

"  I  hope  you're  's  well  's  could  be  expected,"  at  last  re- 
marked the  man.  He  had  had  a  kind  of  hope  that  his 
companion  would  speak  first,  and  thus  open  the  way  to  a 
conversation ;  but  he  was  greatly  mistaken  in  this  hope. 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Portia.  She  did  not  go  away,  as  she 
might  have  done.  She  stood  there  easily,  looking  at  the 
man.  She  was  beginning  to  be  conscious  of  a  slight  de- 
gree of  thankfulness  for  any  kind  of  a  diversion.  'She  was 
tired  of  that  horrible  dead  level  of  suffering.  She  was  not 
fitted  to  suffer.  She  had  no  doubt  that  some  people  were 
fitted  to  suffer.  She  wondered  calmly  what  made  this 
man's  face  so  purple,  since  it  was  a  cool  day,  and  why  did 
his  left  eyelid  twitch  so  before  he  spoke.  She  should  think 
his  wife  would  go  mad  with  seeing  that  dreadful  twitch 
every  day  of  her  life. 

Mr.  Lincoln  was  now  divided  between  two  emotions  :  a 
regret  that  he  had  addressed  this  girl,  and  a  desire  to  con- 
tinue to  stand  there  and  gaze  at  her. 

"I  understand,"  he  began.  Here  he  had  a  strong  wish 
that  he  had  taken  his  whip  with  him  when  he  left  his 
cart.  The  feel  of  his  whip  in  his  right  hand  was  an  ac- 
customed and  much  needed  stimulant  to  his  mental  facul- 
ties. He  was  also  thinking  that  probably  there  were  "  lots 


TWO   GIRLS  III 

of  gals  jest  like  this  one  all  round  in  the  thick  settled 
places."  . 

"  I  understand,"  he  began  again,  "  that  the  man  that's 
ben  hurt — cause  unknown  " — this  phrase  spoken  somewhat 
proudly — "  was  your  beau." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Portia. 

That  word  "  beau "  always  made  her  ill,  she  had  once 
told  Salome.  It  was  a  word  calculated  to  produce  a  disas- 
trous effect  upon  her  whenever  she  heard  it. 

Mr.  Lincoln  did  not  know  why  she  begged  his  pardon, 
but  he  laboriously  repeated  that  he  had  understood  that  the 
man  who  had  been  hurt — cause  unknown — was  her  beau. 
He  gained  courage,  with  this  repetition,  to  make  an  addition 
to  his  remarks.  He  said  his  wife  was  prevented  by  rheu- 
matism from  coming  over  with  him.  He  interpolated  the 
explanation  that  the  rheumatics  had  been  greatly  aggravated 
by  her  going  "  out  in  the  popple  swamp  to  pick  dangle-ber- 
ries." 

"  Oh,"  said  Portia. 

"  Yes,"  said  Mr.  Lincoln,  with  his  eyes  what  the  old 
novels  used  to  call  "glued"  to  the  girl's  face,  "popple 
swamps  is  no  place  for  old  women  with  rheumatics." 

Mr.  Lincoln  sometimes,  when  sufficiently  removed  from 
his  wife's  presence,  greatly  enjoyed  speaking  of  her  as  an 
old  woman. 

He  now  had  a  fast-growing  sense  that  he  was  giving  him- 
self up  to  what  seemed  to  him  a  violent  admiration  of 
Miss  Nunally's  complexion.  All  the  "  women  folks  "  whom 
he  habitually  saw  had  freckles  or  moth-patches  on  their 
faces.  He  thought  that  there  could  not  be  a  woman  whose 
face  was  not  freckled.  But  here  was  one  whose  skin  was — 
Mr.  Lincoln  staggered  mentally  when  he  came  to  try  to  find 
a  comparison. 

And  to  look  at  Portia  Nunally  gave  the  hulking,  elderly, 
bovine  creature  standing  near  her  an  almost  exhilarating 
sense  of  dissipation.  He  could  not  understand  it.  But  then 
it  was  a  long  time  now  since  Mr.  Lincoln  had  tried  to  un- 


112  OUT   OF    STEP 

derstand  anything ;  and  he  seemed  to  remember  that  when 
he  had  formerly  tried  he  had  never  succeeded. 

He  was  wondering  now  what  he  had  been  saying.  Again 
he  wished  that  he  had  his  whip  in  his  right  hand. 

Oh,  he  was  saying  something  about  his  wife's  rheumatics. 
But  there  did  not  seem  to  be  anything  more  to  add  on  that 
subject.  He  did  not  know  but  that  he  ought  to  go  out  to 
his  cart  now.  If  he  only  had  his  whip  ! 

He  did  not  wish  to  go  home  without  finding  out  some- 
thing about  that  wedding-dress.  So  much  hung  on  that,  in 
Mrs.  Lincoln's  mind. 

"  It  must  be  dretful  hard  to  bear,"  he  now  remarked. 

And  again  Portia  said  : 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  and  again  he  repeated  his  words. 

His  face  grew  more  purple,  and  his  eyelid  twitched  more 
markedly  than  before. 

"  I  mean  to  have  your  beau  hurt  so  sudden — cause  un- 
known." 

"  Yes,"  said  Portia. 

The  girl  was  finding  an  enjoyment  in  the  embarrassment 
of  the  man  before  her.  She  was  wishing  cruelly  that  she 
might  make  some  one  suffer.  It  is  often  true  that  to  suffer 
one's  self  is  strangely  an  incentive  towards  causing  suffering. 
But  she  was  beginning  to  weary  of  this  creature.  He  was 
too  stupid.  At  first,  as  a  type,  she  thought  that  he  might 
amuse  her.  But  nothing  could  amuse  her  any  more. 

What  a  mistake  she  had  made  in  allowing  herself  to  love 
so  deeply !  To  love,  save  in  some  fleeting  abandonment  of 
ardor,  was  surely  to  be  wretched.  There  was  always  in  lov- 
ing the  reverse  side,  the  side  of  wretchedness.  The  reverse 
side  was  what  she  had  intended  to  avoid;  and  she  had 
hitherto  succeeded  very  well  in  this  intention.  But  some- 
how now  she  found  herself  plunged  into  an  intolerable 
misery.  She  was  too  epicurean  in  taste  and  temperament 
to  be  able  to  bear  this.  When  she  had  reached  this  stage 
in  her  confused  thoughts  a  rush  of  tenderness  for  her  lover 
came  over  her,  and  she  yielded  herself  up  to  it. 


"HE  KNEW  YOU?"  129 

Redd  looked  at  his  watch. 

"  I'll  get  you  to  the  station  in  time  ;  you  needn't  worry 
about  that,"  he  said. 

With  the  lines  in  one  hand  he  leaned  his  elbows  on  his 
knees  and  his  face  on  his  closed  hands. 

Presently  he  said,  without  lifting  his  head :  "  I  ain't  got 
a  very  good  temper,  I  expect.  It  ain't  quick,  but  when  it 
gets  up  I'm  kind  of  a  devil,  I  suppose,  and  this  has  worn 
on  me  so,  Salome,"  now  raising  his  head  and  looking  at 
her.  "  This  has  worn  on  me  so  ever  since  you  told  me  that 
night  before  you  went  to  Florida  that  you  didn't  love  me. 
I  said  to  you  then  that  I  didn't  give  up.  I  ain't  one  of  the 
kind  that  gives  up." 

Salome  shuddered  in  silence.  Redd  carefully  took  a 
good  hold  of  the  reins.  Then  he  looked  at  his  watch 
again. 

"  I  might 's  well  tell  you  the  whole,"  he  said.  "  It  won't 
make  matters  any  worse." 

Yet,  having  spoken  thus,  Redd  seemed  to  hesitate.  Then 
he  went  on  : 

"  I  knew  Moore  was  hurt.  I  struck  him.  But  I  didn't 
suppose  he  was  hurt  much.  He  went  down  there  among 
the  bushes.  I  drove  away.  Do  you  hear  me,  Salome  ?" 

"  I  hear  you." 

"  I'll  tell  you  all  there  is  to  it.  I  saw  him  at  a  distance 
when  he  came  into  the  town  yesterday,  before  he  saw  you. 
I  met  your  mother  afterwards.  I  was  beside  myself.  But 
I  don't  bluster  round  much.  I  knew  your  mother  was 
afraid  about  me.  It  was  bad  luck  that  Moore  and  I  should 
run  across  each  other  late  in  the  afternoon  yesterday.  He 
wasn't  calm,  and  I  wasn't,  either.  I  expect  I  said  some 
tough  things  to  him.  Anyway,  he  blazed  up  and  struck  me 
first.  We  had  kind  of  a  scuffle  there  in  the  bushes.  Then 
I  hit  him.  He  dropped.  I  didn't  stay  to  find  out  anything. 
I  didn't  care.  I  drove  off  home.  Early  this  morning,  as  I 
told  you,  I  took  my  folks  to  the  Far  Corners;  and  I'd  just 
got  back.  I  was  stopping  at  your  house.  Now  I'll  take 

9 


130  OUT  OF  STEP 

you  to  the  station.  There's  plenty  of  time.  You  can  hate 
me  all  you  want  to." 

Redd  turned  his  horse,  and  in  a  few  moments  more  they 
were  at  the  station,  which  was  a  bit  of  a  building  set  in  the 
midst  of  an  oak  wood. 

There  was  nobody  there  save  the  agent,  who  stared  at 
them  with  the  interest  he  bestowed  on  every  one. 

The  instant  the  horse  stopped  Salome  sprang  out.  She 
hurried  away  from  the  carriage  to  the  edge  of  the  platform. 
She  stood  there  looking  blindly  down  the  straight  track, 
which  dwindled  out  of  sight  among  the  trees. 

Her  only  clear  thought  at  that  moment  was  the  hope 
that  Redd  would  not  come  near  her.  If  he  came  near  her 
now  while  the  red  was  before  her  eyes  and  the  beating  was 
in  her  temples  she  might  push  him  off  on  to  the  rails  just 
as  the  engine  came. 

She  was  sorry  that  the  thought  had  come  to  her  that  she 
might  push  him  off  in  front  of  the  engine.  She  knew  that 
she  would  not  do  such  a  thing — that  is,  she  thought  that 
she  knew  it.  But  she  wished  that  dreadful  beating  would 
stop  in  her  temples. 

There  was  a  step  behind  and  close  to  her.  It  was  Redd. 
He  was  aware  that  he  ought  not  to  approach  her,  and  yet 
he  could  not  keep  away. 

"  It's  time  for  the  train,"  he  said,  now  speaking  in  his  old 
slow  manner. 

Salome  turned.     "  Don't  come  near  me  !"  she  whispered. 

He  moved  back  a  few  paces.  He  was  thinking  that  it 
was  a  terrible  thing  to  be  drawn  to  any  one  as  he  was 
drawn  to  that  girl. 

"There's  the  train,"  he  said.  He  had  a  sudden  fear  that 
she  might  step  off  upon  the  track. 

But  she  made  no  motion  to  do  so.  The  train  came 
slowing  up.  Salome  stood  back  a  little  now  and  tried  to 
look  along  the  line  of  cars.  She  had  come  for  something. 
Oh,  she  knew  now  why  she  had  come.  She  went  forward 
towards  two  women,  girls  they  seemed  to  be,  who  had 


"HE    KNEW    YOU?"  131 

alighted.  They  were  the  only  people  who  had  left  the 
train.  A  trunk  was  swung  down  from  the  baggage -car, 
then  the  bell  sounded  and  the  train  was  gone. 

As  Salome  advanced  to  the  strangers  she  was  wondering 
if  she  would  be  able  to  greet  them.  To  her  surprise  voice 
and  words  came  directly. 

"Did  Dr.  Jennings  send  you?"  she  asked  of  the  girl 
nearest  her.  "  Yes ;  then  you  are  the  nurses.  I  have 
come  for  you.  Here  is  the  carriage.  You  will  have  to  get 
the  agent  to  bring  the  trunk  to-night." 

Having  said  so  much  with  the  utmost  glibness  and  ap- 
propriateness, Salome  was  sure  that  she  could  not  speak 
again. 

Redd  stood  at  the  carriage.  He  assisted  the  two  strangers. 
Then  he  turned  towards  Salome.  It  seemed  to  her  a  child- 
ish thing  to  refuse  his  aid ;  and  yet  she  had  never  done  a 
more  difficult  thing  than  to  force  herself  to  touch  his  hand. 

His  somewhat  saturnine  face  lighted  in  a  pathetic  man- 
ner. 

"  Oh,  thank  you !"  he  whispered,  as  he  took  his  seat  be- 
side her.  "  You  would  forgive  me  if  you  knew  how  I  suffer." 

She  turned  towards  him  coldly. 

"  You  need  not  thank  me,"  she  said.  "  I  shall  never  for- 
give you." 

"  Very  well,"  he  answered.  "  You  will  do  as  you  please, 
now,  as  you  have  always  done.  But — " 

Redd  looked  full  at  the  girl.  She  was  not  afraid  of  him. 
She  was  thinking  of  paragraphs  in  the  newspapers  that  told 
of  men  who  had  killed  women  who  had  rejected  them. 
Perhaps  Redd  would  kill  her.  That  would  not  be  so  bad. 
That  was  cutting  a  knot  which  could  not  be  untied.  Only 
her  mother  would  be  sorry. 

In  a  few  moments  Salome  turned  in  the  seat  and  ad- 
dressed some  remark  to  the  strangers.  She  made  a  brave 
attempt  to  hear  what  was  said  in  reply,  but  she  could  not 
make  any  sense ;  their  words  rattled  about  in  her  ears  like 
stones. 


132  OUT  OF   STEP 

At  the  Scudder  house  the  mistress  of  the  family  was  re- 
covering from  her  fluster. 

As  she  often  asserted,  she  was  generally  as  "  calm  as  a 
clock,"  but  "there  was  certain  things  that  did  upset  her 
awful,  and  no  mistake." 

Mrs.  Hill  had  come  over  to  make  inquiries,  and  to  be 
there  if  possible  when  the  "  nusses  "  arrived.  She  felt  that 
this  was  an  occasion  that  must  not  be  neglected;  and  she 
had  left  her  "  table  a-standin'  "  and  had  walked  three  miles, 
though  she  was  obliged  to  use  a  cane  on  account  of  a  long- 
continued  "  sciatiky  "  in  her  left  leg.  She  had  not  made, 
under  these  circumstances,  much  more  than  a  mile  an  hour. 
She  had  confidently  reckoned  upon  having  a  lift  from  the 
butcher  whose  day  it  was  to  come  over  this  road.  He  had, 
indeed,  driven  along,  and  she  had  turned  about,  leaning  on 
her  cane,  and  signalling  imperatively  to  him  to  stop.  But 
he  had  been  apparently  deeply  engaged  in  assorting  some- 
thing in  the  back  of  his  wagon,  and  had  been  blind  and  deaf. 
She  could  not  know  that  he  was  saying  to  himself  that  "he'd 
be  darned  if  he'd  take  in  that  thunderin'  old  Hill  woman." 

Mrs.  Hill,  whom  Nely  Scudder  did  not  love,  was  now  sit- 
ting in  the  kitchen.  She  had  hobbled  twice  to  the  door  of 
the  bedroom  and  looked  at  Moore  as  he  lay  there.  She 
had  expressed  it  as  her  decided  opinion  that  he  would 
never  come  to.  She  had  seen  several  persons  layin'  like 
that,  and  not  one  of  them  had  ever  come  to. 

"  And  where  was  that  gal  that  was  engaged  to  him  ? 
She'd  heard  that  there  was  a  gal  that  had  come.  She  had 
seen  Matthew  Lincoln  V  he  had  told  her  'bout  that  gal. 
She,  Mrs.  Hill,  wanted  to  see  her.  She  could  tell  in  a 
minute  what  kind  of  a  gal  she  was." 

As  Miss  Nunally  could  not  be  produced  at  this  moment, 
Mrs.  Hill  was  obliged  to  wait  before  she  saw  that  "gal." 
She  employed  the  time  by  asking  how  it  was  that  S'lome 
Gerry  was  mixed  up  with  this  affair. 

At  this  point  in  the  conversation  Nely,  who  was  sweeping 
the  kitchen,  said : 


"HE    KNEW    YOU?"  133 

"  Mother !"  in  such  a  warning  tone  that  Mrs.  Scudder, 
who  had  intended  to  reply  very  differently,  said  in  the  most 
general  way  that  she  found  there  was  a  good  many  things 
in  this  world  that  she  couldn't  understand. 

"  Oh,  land  !"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Hill,  contemptuously.  She 
felt  that  she  had  not  come  three  miles  with  her  sciatiky 
leg  to  be  told  any  such  stuff  as  that. 

She  now  remarked  that  she  had  thought  for  a  good 
while  that  S'lome  Gerry  wasn't  exactly  as  she  should  be. 
'N'  she'd  ben  well  brought  up,  too.  There  wa'n't  nothin1 
aginst  the  Gerryses  nor  the  Wareses.  Had  Mis'  Scudder 
heard  'bout  one  of  them  High  School  gals  'n'  S'lome  ? 

No,  Mrs.  Scudder  had  not  heard.  Here  Nely  made  a 
great  racket  with  her  broom  among  the  chairs. 

"'Twas  Christiana  Moody.  She'd  done  something  or 
other  that  was  aginst  the  rules.  Anyway,  'twas  thought 
she  had.  'N'  S'lome,  she  knew  it;  'n'  when  the  master 
arst  her  'bout  it,  instid  of  sayin'  Christiana  done  it,  S'lome 
up  'n'  says  she  didn't.  'N'  so  the  gal  didn't  git  punished, 
on  account  of  S'lome's  tellin'  a  lie.  You  see  Chris  told  of 
it.  She  said  she  should  never  forgit  it  of  S'lome  in  the 
world,  she  was  so  grateful.  But  I  call  it  underminin'  the 
foundations  of  the  world.  'N'  I  hope  S'lome's  mother 
won't  never  hear  of  it.  The  Wareses  was  always  truthful 
's  daylight." 

Nely's  broom  hit  the  chairs  still  more  noisily. 

Mrs.  Hill  went  on  : 

"  I  met  Matthew  Lincoln,  's  I  told  ye.  He  said  S'lome 
was  mixed  up  somehow,  'n'  he  couldn't  find  out  how.  I 
told  him  I  guessed  mebby  I  could  find  out.  Anyway, 
I'd  try.  There's  Nely  now ;  I'll  bet  she  knows,  don't  ye, 
Nely?  You've  been  kind  of  thick  with  S'lome.  Is  this 
feller  a  beau  of  S'lome's  ?  I've  always  said  that  something 
or  other  happened  to  her  down  South.  Nely,  you  know, 
don't  ye  ?" 

Nely  rested  on  her  broom  and  looked  at  her  questioner. 
Mrs.  Scudder  anxiously  watched  her  daughter. 


134  OUT   OF    STEP 

"  Now  don't  you  go  to  lyin',  Nely,"  said  Mrs.  Hill,  with  a 
significant  emphasis  on  the  pronoun. 

The  girl  tossed  her  head.  She  said  that  she  had  been 
brought  up  not  to  lie,  and  she  wasn't  going  to  begin  now. 
Then  she  went  on  sweeping,  flourishing  her  broom  and 
raising  so  much  dust  that  Mrs.  Hill  began  to  cough  con- 
vulsively. 

"  Nely !"  said  Mrs.  Scudder. 

"  You  told  me  to  sweep,"  said  Nely,  "  and  I've  got  to 
sweep.  If  folks  get  choked  with  the  dust  I  don't  know  's 
I'm  to  blame." 

Mrs.  Scudder  shook  her  head  entreatingly.  Mrs.  Hill, 
emerging  from  her  handkerchief,  stopped  coughing  long 
enough  to  say  that  she  had  borne  some  things,  and  she 
s'posed  she  could  bear  others.  And  what  kind  of  an  opera- 
tion had  they  performed  on  that  young  man  ?  Matthew 
Lincoln  said  that  they  had  cut  his  head  open  and  taken 
out  some  of  his  brains.  For  her  part — 

It  was  at  this  stage  in  the  lady's  remarks  that  Miss  Nu- 
nally  came  down-stairs  and  entered  the  room. 

Nely  stopped  sweeping  immediately.  Although  she  had 
begun  upon  a  consistent  course  of  hatred  towards  Miss 
Nunally,  she  was  very  glad  to  see  her  now. 

Mrs.  Scudder  performed  a  painstaking  introduction  be- 
tween the  woman  who  had,  impelled  by  curiosity,  walked 
three  miles  on  a  sciatiky  leg  and  the  imperious-looking  girl 
who  had  just  stepped  within  the  kitchen. 

Portia  walked  forward  and  sat  down  near  Mrs.  Hill. 
There  was  a  good  deal  of  combativeness  in  Portia.  She 
now  scented  a  battle.  She  leaned  back  in  her  chair  and 
looked  at  Mrs.  Hill ;  and  as  she  looked  she  hated,  as  Nely 
hated,  this  sleek  human  being.  Mrs.  Hill  was  not  so  dull 
but  that  she  also  scented  battle.  But  she  was  very  curi- 
ous. Her  eyes  travelled  eagerly  over  every  detail  of  Por- 
tia's dress ;  they  dwelt  upon  the  rings  on  her  hands ;  then 
her  glance  came  up  to  Portia's  face  and  encountered  the 
girl's  eyes.  These  eyes  sometimes  had  something  like  a 


"HE  KNEW  YOU?"  135 

paralyzing  effect,  they  could  be  so  cold  and  so  contemptu- 
ous. 

To  the  surprise  of  the  other  three  women  it  was  Portia 
who  began  to  question. 

"  Did  you  walk  ?"  she  asked.  Mrs.  Hill  was  so  surprised 
that  she  blushed.  Her  face  always  looked  as  if  it  had  just 
been  vigorously  washed  in  soapsuds.  Indeed,  it  was  Nely's 
often-asserted  belief  that  Mrs.  Hill  used  all  the  softsoap  she 
annually  made  upon  her  own  countenance. 

At  first  she  did  not  seem  inclined  to  reply.  Therefore 
Portia  repeated  her  question,  her  enunciation  even  more 
careful  than  usual,  and  she  prided  herself  upon  never,  un- 
der any  circumstances,  chewing  her  words. 

"Ee-us  ;  I  walked,"  now  replied  Mrs.  Hill. 

"And  you  are  lame?"  glancing  at  the  cane  which  its 
owner  usually  had  very  much  in  evidence. 

"Ee-us;  I'm  lame.  Got  sciatiky.  The  doctors  can't 
do—" 

"  Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon ;  I  wasn't  asking  you  about  the 
doctors,"  said  Miss  Nunally,  in  such  a  way  that  for  the  first 
time  since  she  had  seen  her  Nely  questioned  as  to  whether 
she  should  continue  to  hate  her  or  not. 

Mrs.  Hill  visibly  writhed  in  her  chair.  "  How  far  away 
do  you  live  ?"  asked  Miss  Nunally. 

"  Three  mild." 

Portia  lifted  her  upper  lip  in  her  most  infuriating  way. 

"  Three  miles  !"  she  said.  "  How  curious  you  must  have 
been,  Mrs.  Hill !  Have  you  found  out  anything  that  pays 
you  for  coming  all  that  way  on  that  leg  that  the  doctors 
can't  do  anything  for  ?" 

A  silence,  during  which  Portia,  leaning  comfortably  back 
in  her  chair,  gazed  at  the  woman  before  her. 

"  Have  you  ?"  she  repeated. 

"  I — I'm  sure  I  d'  know,"  was  the  answer,  pronounced  with 
some  difficulty. 

"  Ask  me,"  said  Portia,  smiling.  "  I'm  an  excellent  per- 
son to  ask.  I'm  engaged  to  that  young  man  who  is  ill. 


136  OUT  OF   STEP 

We  were  to  have  been  married  next  Tuesday  at  half-past 
seven.  I  shall  marry  him  as  soon  as  he  is  well  enough. 
There  was  a  gentleman  here  a  while  ago — Mr.  Lincoln.  He 
came  to  inquire  about  the  wedding-gown.  I  didn't  tell  him. 
I'm  not  going  to  tell  you.  Does  your  sciatica  ever  keep 
you  from  asking  questions  ?" 

Another  silence.  When  Portia  had  waited  again,  she 
asked  : 

"  Does  it  ?" 

In  the  silence  that  also  followed  this  repetition  there  was 
distinctly  heard  an  ill-suppressed  giggle  from  Nely.  Nely's 
mother  was  so  absorbed  in  the  scene  that  she  forgot  to  make 
any  sign  of  disapproval. 

"  Mr.  Lincoln,"  now  went  on  Portia,  "  was  so  good  as  to 
mention  one  or  two  cases  where  girls  had  been  laid  out  in 
their  wedding-gowns.  I  gathered  that  he  rather  wished 
that  I  might  be  laid  out  in  mine.  But  I  don't  mind  telling 
you,  Mrs.  Hill,  that  under  no  imaginable  circumstances 
shall  I  be  laid  out  in  my  wedding-gown.  Is  there  anything 
more  you'd  like  to  know?  Nely,"  turning  to  that  person, 
"  is  there  anything  more  you  think  that  Mrs.  Hill  would  like 
to  know  ?" 

As  Nely  was  utterly  incapable  of  speaking  at  this  mo- 
ment, Portia  turned  leisurely  back  to  the  guest. 

"  I  guess  I  better  be  goin',"  said  Mrs.  Hill,  in  a  muffled 
voice.  She  found  strength  to  add  :  "  I  left  my  table  a-stand- 
in'." 

Portia  sprang  up. 

"  Let  me  help  you,"  she  said,  solicitously. 

Mrs.  Hill  grasped  a  chairback  and  her  cane. 

"  Don't  you  tech  me !"  she  said. 

Portia  laughed.  She  said  she  was  sorry  that  the  sciatica 
was  so  serious.  She  should  think  that  walks  would  be  bad 
for  it.  Was  she  really  going  ?  Good-morning.  She  was 
so  glad  it  had  happened  so  that  they  two  could  meet.  Could 
not  Mrs.  Hill  come  again  while  she,  Miss  Nunally,  was  at 
Mr.  Scudder's  ? 


"  HE    KNEW   YOU  ?"  137 

Mrs.  Hill  hobbled  painfully,  yet  hurriedly,  to  the  door. 
She  went  out  without  turning  towards  her  hostess. 

Portia  gently  closed  the  screen  door  behind  the  retreat- 
ing guest. 

"  Really,"  she  said,  "  I  hope  there  are  more  of  them.  Al- 
ready there  are  two,  a  man  and  a  woman.  They  keep  me 
from  yielding ;  they  are  excellent  tonics.  But  to  see  them 
often — Mrs.  Scudder,  how  do  you  bear  it  ?" 

Mrs.  Scudder  felt  it  incumbent  upon  her  to  rouse  and 
declare,  as  she  had  more  than  once  said  to  Nely,  that  Mrs. 
Hill  was  a  real  good  woman. 

She  was  frightened  at  what  Miss  Nunally  had  done. 

"  Oh,  a  good  woman,  is  she  ?"  said  Portia. 

"  Yes,  she  is.     She  is  constant  to  meet'n',  V — " 

"  Mother,"  said  Nely,  with  the  relentless  candor  of  youth, 
"  she  ain't  a  good  woman,  neither ;  not  if  she  went  to  meet'n' 
every  hour  of  her  life.  She's  a  prying,  gossiping  old  wretch 
— that's  what  she  is." 

"  How  her  '  sciatiky '  leg  will  ache  before  she  gets  home !" 
remarked  Portia. 

Having  said  this,  Miss  Nunally  sat  down  wearily.  A  look 
of  deadly  fatigue  dropped  like  a  veil  over  her  face.  Her 
eyes  grew  dull  and  almost  colorless. 

She  sat  thus  for  a  few  moments,  and  Nely  furtively 
watched  her.  She  was  thinking  that  that  girl  was  in  love, 
too,  and  she  was  going  to  marry  that  man  if  he  got  well. 
Then  what  would  become  of  Salome  ? 

Mrs.  Gerry  had  gone  to  a  neighbor's  to  procure  some- 
thing for  the  household.  At  this  distance  from  stores  peo- 
ple were  often  obliged  to  borrow  of  one  another. 

Dr.  Sands  had  gone  away  for  an  hour  or  two,  leaving 
the  instruction  that  there  was  nothing  to  do  ;  that  he  woujd 
be  back  before  there  was  any  chance  of  anything  to  do. 

Mr.  Scudder  had  long  since  returned  from  driving  Dr. 
Jennings  to  the  station,  and  he  was  now  down  in  the  meadow 
trying  to  get  the  hay  into  cocks  before  it  was  absolutely 
night. 


138  OUT   OF   STEP 

Portia  walked  into  the  bedroom  and  sat  down  by  the  bed. 

Mrs.  Scudder  was  in  and  out,  keeping  faithful  watch. 
She  was  still  tempted  to  try  mustard  paste  on  the  back  of 
Moore's  neck.  It  seemed  to  her  that  mustard  paste  faith- 
fully used  would  bring  "  most  anything  to." 

She  went  to  the  door,  but  turned  away  as  she  saw  Miss 
Nunally  sitting  there. 

Portia  was  not  one  of  those  who  seem  appropriately 
placed  in  a  sick-room.  Still,  if  she  undertook  to  do  any- 
thing there  she  did  it  deftly,  because  she  did  everything 
deftly.  But  she  had  no  vocation,  as  she  would  have  said, 
towards  nursing.  In  fact,  as  she  was  accustomed  to  declare, 
she  had  no  vocation  towards  anything  save  the  spending  of 
money.  Her  aunt  had  heretofore  provided  her  with  this 
vocation ;  but  even  Mrs.  Darrah  was  wearying  of  this.  She 
said  her  niece  was  really  too  independent  for  a  dependent 
person.  Whereupon  Portia  had  responded  that  she  was 
never  going  to  cultivate  humility,  not  if  she  starved,  and 
when  the  girl  broke  the  engagement  with  the  rich  and  infat- 
uated Englishman,  Mrs.  Darrah  had  said  that,  for  her  part, 
she  was  going  to  live  a  short  time  without  her  niece,  that 
her  niece  might  try  her  life  with  her  parents  for  a  while. 

So  it  happened  that  Portia  had  for  some  months  been 
living  with  her  father  and  mother  at  the  small  sea- coast 
city  on  the  North  Shore  of  Massachusetts.  Life  there  had 
been  exceedingly  limited,  and  she  had  not  contributed  at 
all  to  the  happiness  of  her  parents.  In  fact,  as  she  would 
have  frankly  acknowledged,  she  had  "  led  them  a  life." 
She  was  too  fastidious  to  be  poor ;  and  she  secretly  de- 
spised her  father  and  mother  because  poverty  did  not  make 
them  unhappy.  Not  that  they  were  very  poor ;  they  were, 
as  Portia  said,  "  comfortably  off."  She  asserted  that  it  was  a 
dreadful  thing  to  be  comfortably  off,  for  then  there  seemed 
to  be  no  incentive  towards  anything  more. 

"  My  father  is  sure  of  his  bread  and  his  cigars,"  she  used 
to  say,  scornfully,  "  and  my  mother  is  sure  that  my  father 
is  sure  of  them ;  so  they  keep  on  living  like  that." 


"  HE    KNEW   YOU  ?"  139 

Nely  went  to  the  bedroom  door  and  glanced  in.  She 
knew  that  Miss  Nunally  was  there,  and  she  wanted  to  look 
at  her.  She  felt  that  she  was  growing  bewitched  to  watch 
Miss  Nunally. 

Portia  sat  far  back  in  the  large  chair  with  her  eyes  fixed 
upon  Moore.  She  did  not  know  that  Nely  was  looking  at 
her  in  hostile  admiration.  She  was  thinking,  with  inex- 
pressible bitterness,  that  her  life  thus  far  had  been  a  very 
poor  thing  indeed.  What  if  she  had  known  some  moments 
of  wild  happiness  such  as  natures  like  hers  can  experience  ? 
Those  moments  were  gone.  Just  now  the  girl  felt  as  if 
everything  was  in  the  past  for  her.  There  was  nothing  in 
the  future.  Moore  did  not  love  her  as  other  men  had  loved 
her.  Nevertheless — 

The  girl  sighed  heavily.  Her  gaze,  which  had  for  a  time 
been  fixed  blankly  upon  the  white  coverlid  of  the  bed,  now 
rose  to  Moore's  face.  She  leaned  forward  breathlessly  and 
silently,  for  Moore  was  looking  at  her. 

At  the  very  first  she  could  not  tell  whether  he  knew  her 
or  not.  Almost  immediately  he  closed  his  eyes  again.  Por- 
tia sat  motionless.  Already  it  had  seemed  to  her  that  Moore 
had  been  unconscious  a  long  time,  that  it  was  days  since 
he  had  been  hurt. 

She  felt  a  sort  of  exultation  that  it  was  she  who  was  sit- 
ting beside  him,  that  it  was  not  Salome  upon  whom  his  gaze 
first  rested. 

It  was  difficult  for  her  to  be  quiet;  but  she  knew 
that  she  must  be  quiet.  When  would  he  look  at  her 
again  ? 

The  operation  must  have  been  successful.  But  she  was 
not  quite  sure  whether  he  had  known  her  or  not. 

What  if  he  should  recover,  but  should  not  be  himself  ? 
Confused  stories  of  such  cases  came  to  her  mind.  But  she 
only  dimly  understood  concerning  the  operation  that  had 
been  performed.  She  did  not  care  to  understand  such 
things.  They  were  too  horrifying. 

She  remained  leaning  forward  over  the  bed.     Presently 


140  OUT   OF   STEP 

she  reached  out  her  hand  and  laid  it  over  his,  which  rested 
so  inertly  upon  the  cover. 

Immediately  he  opened  his  eyes  again  and  she  caught 
his  glance  in  hers. 

But  he  seemed  unable  to  make  the  exertion  required  to 
keep  his  eyelids  raised. 

"  Randolph,"  she  said,  softly.  The  eyelids  quivered  in 
response  to  the  word,  but  they  did  not  lift. 

Portia  rose  to  her  feet  in  uncontrollable  excitement. 

Perhaps  something  ought  to  be  done — and  what  ?  She 
was  so  helpless. 

She  turned  towards  the  door,  and  at  the  same  moment 
she  heard  some  one  enter  the  kitchen.  The  footsteps  came 
directly  towards  her  and  Dr.  Sands  appeared.  She  did  not 
speak.  She  watched  the  man  as  he  came  to  the  foot  of  the 
bed  and  gazed  at  his  patient. 

The  doctor  put  his  lips  together  as  if  he  would  whistle, 
and  held  them  there  without  whistling. 

Moore  was  lying  as  he  had  been  lying,  and  his  eyes  were 
now  closed.  But  there  was  an  indefinable  change  in  his 
appearance. 

Portia  rose  and  walked  swiftly  to  the  doctor.  She  clasped 
both  hands  about  his  arm  with  a  closeness  of  which  she 
was  not  aware. 

"  If  you  know,  tell  me! — tell  me  !"  she  whispered. 

Dr.  Sands  looked  at  her  admiringly.  It  was  a  curious 
fact  that  there  was  rarely  a  man  who  could  look  at  Miss 
Nunally  with  absolute  indifference. 

"  Oh,"  he  said,  in  that  brusque  way  which  is  sometimes 
so  much  more  reassuring  than  smooth  speech  would  be,  "  I 
guess  we  are  going  to  pull  through  this  time.  Neat  little 
job.  Jennings  is  the  man  for  such  things.  Remarkably 
neat  job.  Has  he  opened  his  eyes  ?" 

As  Dr.  Sands  asked  this  question  he  went  to  the  bedside 
and  lifted  Moore's  wrist,  putting  his  finger  on  the  pulse. 

Portia  said  "  Yes,"  watching  every  movement. 

"  And  he  saw  you  ?     He  knew  you,  I  suppose  ?" 


"HE  KNEW  YOU?"  141 

Dr.  Sands  glanced  with  the  keenest  interest  at  the  girl  as 
he  made  this  inquiry. 

She  hesitated. 

"What!"  he  said,  sharply,  "can't  you  tell  whether  he 
knew  you  or  not  ?" 

"  No,  I  can't  tell." 

"  But  he  saw  you  ?" 

"  Yes." 

Dr.  Sands  now  appeared  to  forget  Miss  Nunally  entirely 
in  his  interest  in  the  "case." 

He  sat  down  by  the  bed  and  leaned  his  head  on  his  hand 
with  his  eyes  fixed  intently  upon  Moore. 

Portia  walked  away.  She  could  not  stay  in  the  house. 
She  hurried  into  the  road,  walking  back  and  forth,  unable 
to  think  clearly,  oppressed  beyond  measure.  To  be  un- 
happy made  Portia  angry.  If  Moore  were  not  going  to 
know  her,  what  then  ? 


IX 

THE  TIME  OF   THE   CLETHRA 

WHEN  Walter  Redd's  horse  had  brought  himself  and  his 
three  companions  within  sight  of  Mr.  Scudder's  house 
Salome  asked  the  young  man  if  he  would  allow  her  to 
alight.  Without  a  word,  he  stopped  the  horse.  She  left 
the  carriage  before  he  could  make  any  attempt  to  assist  her. 
Not  looking  at  the  people  she  was  leaving,  she  walked 
quickly  into  a  cart-path  that  branched  from  the  highway 
here. 

The  dusk  of  the  evening  was  now  coming  on  rapidly. 

The  elder  of  the  two  nurses  watched  Salome.  Then  she 
turned  towards  Redd. 

"  Why  do  you  let  her  go  ?"  she  asked,  with  some  asperity. 
"  Do  you  not  see  that  she  ought  not  to  go  alone  ?  She  is 
suffering." 

"  I  can't  help  it.  I  can't  help  what  she  does,"  he  an- 
swered, gruffly.  "  But  that  path  leads  out  towards  her  home. 
Perhaps  she  is  going  home." 

When  Redd  had  seen  the  two  nurses  enter  the  house,  he 
remained  standing  a  few  moments  by  his  horse.  He  was 
looking  at  the  house,  where  the  lamps  were  already  lighted. 
He  knew  that  he  could  not  go  away  until  he  had  learned 
how  Moore  was.  Whatever  the  answer  to  his  question,  he 
must  hear  it.  He  had  not  the  least  care  as  to  whether 
Salome  let  it  be  known  that  it  was  his  blow  which  had  in- 
jured Moore.  She  probably  would  not  tell.  It  was  of  no 
consequence — not  the  least.  But  he  must  know  how  Moore 
was.  Whether  Moore  lived  or  died,  he  had  the  best  of 
everything,  since  Salome  loved  him. 


THE   TIME   OF   THE   CLETHRA  143 

Standing  there  in  the  twilight,  Redd  envied  the  man  in 
that  little  room.  Things  were  all  plain  to  Moore,  since 
Salome  loved  him. 

After  a  short  time  a  woman  appeared  on  the  porch.  It 
was  Mrs.  Gerry,  and  she  was  evidently  seeking  Redd.  She 
came  quickly  to  his  side. 

"  I'm  looking  for  Salome,"  she  said.  "  I  thought  she  was 
with  you." 

Redd  told  his  companion  where  he  had  last  seen  the  girl. 
He  added  that  "  he  took  a  notion  that  she  was  going 
home." 

"  I  wish  you  would  take  me  home,  Walter,"  said  Mrs. 
Gerry.  "  I  can  go  now.  They  don't  need  me  here  any 
more  since  the  nurses  have  come,  and  I  don't  know  how 
long  I  could  bear  it,  either.  It's  trying  on  the  nerves." 

Mrs.  Gerry  stood  so  quietly  and  spoke  so  calmly  that  her 
last  words  sounded  incongruous. 

"I'll  take  you,"  said  the  young  man,  shortly.  "Get 
right  in." 

Mrs.  Gerry  went  back  for  her  belongings.  But  when  she 
returned,  Redd  said  that  he  must  find  out  exactly  how 
Moore  was  before  he  left  that  yard.  He  spoke  with  deep 
emphasis,  and  with  a  sort  of  still  excitement  upon  him ; 
but  Mrs.  Gerry  was  not  surprised  at  that ;  indeed,  she 
thought  it  natural  that  he  should  feel  so.  When  she  began 
to  speak  Redd  interrupted  her  almost  savagely. 

"Don't  deceive  me  !     Tell  me  just  how  things  are." 

"  Why  should  I  deceive  you  ?"  in  surprise.  "  I  don't 
think  it  can  be  told  positively  yet.  I  can  tell  you  my  be- 
lief." As  she  paused  Redd  took  her  arm  with  unconscious 
violence. 

"  Don't  act  as  if  I  were  a  child  who  could  not  be  told 
anything !"  he  exclaimed.  "  What  do  you  think  about 
him  ?" 

"  I  believe  he  will  get  well."  Redd  released  Mrs.  Gerry's 
arm. 

"  Oh,  you  do  ?    What'll  he  do  if  he  gets  well  ?" 


144  OUT   OF   STEP 

Mrs.  Gerry  at  this  showed  some  displeasure.  She  did 
not  answer.  She  said  that  she  would  like  to  go  ;  if  Salome 
did  not  come  home  she  must  find  her.  The  child  had  had 
so  much  to  bear. 

Redd  helped  her  into  the  carriage.  He  placed  the  reins 
in  her  hand,  saying: 

"  Wait  a  minute." 

Then  he  walked  in  at  the  back  door  and  through  the 
kitchen  to  the  bedroom.  He  did  not  notice  Miss  Nunally, 
who  was  sitting  in  the  kitchen.  He  was  intent  upon  seeing 
Moore  and  judging  for  himself.  He  didn't  care  much 
about  what  people  said  to  him.  So  he  walked  just  within 
the  door  and  gazed  at  the  occupant  of  the  bed.  Dr.  Sands 
was  there,  and  the  nurses,  but  Redd  asked  no  questions. 
Presently  he  went  out  as  silently  as  he  had  entered.  This 
time  his  glance  took  in  Miss  Nunally. 

He  took  his  place  by  Mrs.  Gerry,  and  drove  out  of  the 
yard. 

"  Who  is  that  woman  ?"  he  asked.    "  That  fair  woman  ?" 

"  It  is  the  one  to  whom  Moore  is  engaged,"  was  the 
answer. 

"  I  s'pose  she  loves  him,  too  ?" 

"Yes." 

Redd  turned  to  look  at  Mrs.  Gerry. 

"  Oh,  curse  the  fellow !"  he  said,  in  a  low  tone.  "  Why 
should  he  have  everything  ?" 

"  Walter !"  entreatingly. 

"Yes,  I  know  you're  sorry  for  me.  Well,  I  can  bear  it 
from  you.  I  don't  often  let  go  of  myself,  as  you  know,  Mrs. 
Gerry.  I  guess  I'll  get  a  good  grip  again  by-and-by.  But 
things  have  been  rather  tough  with  me  lately.  If  Salome 
didn't  have  to  suffer  I  rather  think  I  could  bear  things.  I'll 
stop  whimpering  now." 

Redd  sat  up  rigidly  and  urged  his  horse.  It  took  only  a 
short  time  to  reach  the  house  of  the  Gerrys.  When  the 
carriage  stopped  a  figure  detached  itself  from  the  deeper 
shadow  of  the  house  and  came  forward. 


THE   TIME   OF   THE   CLETHRA  145 

"  Is  that  you,  mother  ?"  It  was  Salome's  voice,  and  the 
hearing  of  it  went  far  towards  taking  away  her  mother's 
composure.  Mrs.  Gerry  did  not  answer,  because  she  could 
not.  She  hurried  forward,  and  Redd  drove  away  immedi- 
ately. 

"  I  came  home,"  said  the  girl.  "  I  knew  you  would  be 
coming  soon,  and  I  wanted  to  be  with  you,  mother." 

She  took  her  mother's  hand  and  drew  the  arm  over  her 
shoulders.  "  You  know  how  we  said  once  in  Florida  that 
it  was  you  and  I,  mother.  That's  the  way  it  is  to  be, 
isn't  it  ?" 

Worn  out,  Mrs.  Gerry  sobbed  heavily.  She  was  afraid  of 
the  hysterical  inclination  which  came  so  strongly  upon  her. 

"  Come,"  said  Salome,  calmly,  "  let  us  go  in.  I  found  the 
key  where  you  always  leave  it.  I  said  that  I  would  wait 
here  until  half-past  eight,  then  I  would  go  back  to  Mrs. 
Scudder's  for  you.  They  don't  need  you  now.  And  I  do 
need  you.  I  shall  always  need  you — as  long  as  I  live.  Do 
you  think  I  show  any  consumptive  tendencies  now  ?" 

The  two  women  had  entered  the  house.  Mrs.  Gerry  sat 
down  directly,  stumbling  against  a  chair  in  the  darkness. 

Salome  found  the  matches  and  lighted  a  lamp,  setting  it 
carefully  on  the  shelf.  Having  done  this  she  turned  to  her 
mother  and  repeated  her  question  about  consumptive  tend- 
encies. But  Mrs.  Gerry  could  not  answer.  She  bent  for- 
ward and  covered  her  face  with  her  hands,  sobbing  again 
still  more  heavily.  Salome's  calmness  entirely  unnerved 
her  mother. 

The  girl  knelt  down  by  her  mother's  chair. 

"  Oh,  don't !  Please  don't !"  she  whispered.  "  How  tired 
you  must  be !  You  must  go  to  bed.  Let  me  take  care  of 
you.  You  haven't  slept  for  so  long.  Poor  mother !" 

Salome's  voice  murmured  on  as  she  helped  her  mother 
to  undress.  She  sat  down  by  the  bed  and  leaned  over 
it,  stroking  the  worn  face.  Mrs.  Gerry  was  now  weeping 
quietly,  gazing  at  her  daughter  through  her  tears. 

"  You  needn't  worry  one  bit  about  me,"   Salome  was 


I46  OUT   OF   STEP 

saying.  "  I  shall  go  back  to  school  to-morrow.  You  know 
it  would  be  vacation  now,  only  that  there  were  those  weeks 
to  make  up.  Next  month  there  will  be  no  school.  I'm  sorry 
for  that.  But  I  can  be  busy  about  something.  Do  you 
think  you  will  sleep  ?  I'm  sure  you  will.  Good-night." 

Salome  pressed  her  cheek  to  her  mother's  face  for  an 
instant.  Then  she  softly  left  the  room  and  Mrs.  Gerry  fell 
asleep. 

It  seemed  strange  to  both  women,  though  neither  spoke 
on  the  subject,  that  the  next  days  should  go  on  so  quietly. 

Salome  rose  the  following  morning  as  if  nothing  had 
happened.  She  ate  her  breakfast  and  washed  the  dishes 
before  she  prepared  for  school. 

Mrs.  Gerry  looked  at  her  at  first  furtively,  then  openly. 

As  the  girl  took  up  her  hat  Mrs.  Gerry  spoke  : 

"  I  want  to  say  something  to  you  before  you  go." 

"  Well,  mother  ?"  meeting  steadfastly  the  elder  eyes. 

Then  Mrs.  Gerry  asked,  as  Portia  had  asked  : 

"  If  he  gets  well  what  are  you  going  to  do  ?" 

"Do?" 

"  Yes.     Tell  me  truly." 

"Nothing.     Why  do  you  all  ask  me  that?" 

"  Because — because —  Oh  !  Salome,  it  is  dreadful,  but  I 
don't  quite  know  what  to-  expect  of  you.  There  is  only  one 
thing  left  for  you  ;  you  must  be  sure  of  that.  Mr.  Moore 
can  be  nothing  to  you.  Remember  that.  He  is  going  to 
marry  Miss  Nunally.  You  must  look  forward  to  a  life  with- 
out him.  He  is  not  free.  He  ought  not  to  have  come  here." 

Mrs.  Gerry  spoke  bitterly.  She  felt  that  it  was  so  like  a 
man,  even  a  man  like  Moore,  to  have  come  in  spite  of 
everything.  If  he  had  only  stayed  away ! 

Salome  said  nothing.  She  stood  with  her  hat  in  her 
hand  looking  at  her  mother. 

"Do  you  hear  me?" 

There  was  the  irritability  of  fatigue  and  anxiety  in  the 
woman's  voice,  and  she  repeated  her  question  in  a  higher 
key.  She  added  immediately  the  further  inquiry : 


THE   TIME   OF    THE   CLETHRA  147 

"  Are  you  going  to  be  honorable  ?" 

Salome  moved  her  hat  about  in  her  hands.  There  came 
a  peculiar  glow  to  her  eyes. 

"  I  mean  to  do  exactly  as  my  mother's  daughter  ought 
to  do." 

She  spoke  with  ardent  resolution.  She  continued,  hur- 
riedly : 

"  Oh,  you  must  trust  me,  mother.  Now  I  have  come 
home  to  the  North  I  am  going  to  be  good.  I  am  going  to 
be  conscientious.  If  you  could  only  see  into  my  heart  you 
would  take  courage  about  me.  You  would,  truly !" 

The  girl's  aspect  was  alight.  Mrs.  Gerry's  soul  suddenly 
threw  off  a  load  of  apprehension. 

"  That  is  right,"  she  said,  thankfully.  "  Now  run  along  to 
school.  ;But,  dear,  let  us  -only  bear  our  burdens  from  day  to 
day.  Don't  let  us  look  forward." 

Salome  walked  a  few  steps  towards  the  door.  But  she 
returned,  the  high  look  of  courage  and  resolve  intensified 
upon  her  face. 

"  It  is  you  and  I,  really,  isn't  it,  mother  ?"  she  asked. 
"  And  now  I  am  going." 

Before  she  was  out  of  sight  Salome  heard  her  mother's 
voice  calling  to  her. 

"I  will  go  over  by-and-by  and  ask  how  Mr.  Moore  is," 
she  said. 

So  several  days  passed.  Salome  went  to  school.  Her 
mother  was  busy  with  housework ;  still  she  did  not  fail  to 
go  every  afternoon  to  Mr.  Scudder's  and  make  inquiries 
about  the  patient.  But  Salome  did  not  go.  Why  should 
she  ?  What  was  Mr.  Moore  to  her  ?  Her  mother,  of  course, 
could  go ;  it  was  right  and  proper  that  she  should. 

Miss  Nunally  remained  at  the  farm-house,  and  Nely  Scud- 
der,  who  was  kept  at  home  to  help  cook  for  "  them  nusses" 
and  for  Miss  Nunally,  found  in  some  curious  way  that  her 
resolve  to  hate  this  young  lady  was  weakening. 

That  Miss  Nunally  was  Moore's  betrothed  seemed  suffi- 
cient reason  for  hatred  on  Nely's  part 


148  OUT   OF    STEP 

Dr.  Jennings,  from  Boston,  came  and  went  several  times. 
Dr.  Sands  was  there  continually,  it  seemed  to  the  female 
Scudders.  Indeed,  the  country  doctor  felt  that  he  must 
lose  no  opportunity  to  study  the  progress  of  this  case. 

After  a  week  one  of  the  nurses  left.  Dr.  Sands  took  her 
away  one  morning.  He  announced  gayly  that  it  was  ridic- 
ulous to  have  two  women  there  to  take  care  of  that  young 
fellow  when  one  was  enough.  The  young  fellow  was  going 
on  splendidly — splendidly. 

Dr.  Jennings  did  not  speak  so  confidently,  but  he  did 
say  that  all  things  pointed  towards  recovery.  He  said  also 
that  he  did  not  think  it  would  be  necessary  for  him  to  come 
again.  When  he  left  the  house  he  saw  Portia  walking 
down  the  lane.  He  looked  at  her  a  moment,  and  then,  with 
a  decided  step,  he  followed  her.  She  glanced  radiantly  at 
him. 

"  He  is  going  to  get  well !"  she  exclaimed. 

The  man  did  not  answer.  He  moved  on  beside  Portia, 
his  hands  behind  him,  his  head  bent.  The  girl  felt  as  if 
she  were  treading  upon  air,  so  buoyant  was  she.  Already 
she  saw  herself  and  Moore  away  from  this  place.  Once 
away  she  believed  that  time  and  her  own  presence  would 
insure  his  love  to  her. 

Dr.  Jennings  lifted  his  grave  face  and  turned  it  towards 
her. 

"  A  man  in  my  place  sees  a  great  many  things,"  he  said. 
"  I  have  no  business  to  advise,  I  know,  but  I  tell  you  to 
marry  that  young  man.  Marry  directly.  Take  him  away. 
Don't  be  so  foolish  as  to  have  any  silly,  womanish  scruples. 
Propose  this  thing  to  him.  If  he  had  not  been  hurt  you 
would  have  been  his  wife  before  this.  Pardon  me,  Miss 
Nunally.  It  will  be  better  for  him  not  to  marry  that  other 
girl."  The  doctor  from  Boston  lifted  his  hat  slowly,  then 
he  went  back  to  the  yard  where  the  carriage  was  waiting 
for  him.  He  sat  down  and  did  not  open  his  lips  in  re- 
sponse to  any  remarks  made  by  Mr.  Scudder,  who  was  driv- 
ing him.  That  gentleman,  after  two  or  three  attempts  at 


THE   TIME   OF   THE   CLETHRA  149 

conversation,  gave  up  speaking,  deciding  within  himself  that 
this  "doctor  feller  was  thinking  about  cutting  up  somebody." 

What  the  doctor  fellow  was  really  thinking  was  this : 

"  I  am  a  jackass  for  meddling ;  but  somehow  I  couldn't 
help  it.  Of  course  that  young  man  is  bound  to  shipwreck 
himself  somehow.  But  that  other  girl — " 

At  this  point  the  thoughts  of  Dr.  Jennings  were  not  as 
clearly  defined  as  it  was  his  habit  to  have  his  thoughts. 
Being  a  man,  as  well  as  a  skilful  surgeon,  his  mind  had 
dwelt  now  and  then  upon  those  two  women.  He  had  seen 
Salome  but  once,  on  his  first  visit.  Perhaps  he  had  judged 
her  then  as  nearly  without  reference  to  her  sex  as  it  is  pos- 
sible for  a  man  to  judge  a  young  woman.  And  he  had  judged 
her  with  extreme  harshness,  as  the  best  of  us  is  liable  to 
judge  of  one  with  whom  one  is  entirely  out  of  sympathy. 

Of  course  it  was  not  possible  that  Dr.  Jennings  should 
know  Salome  in  the  brief  time  in  which  he  had  seen  her. 
But  he  was  a  man  of  instant  and  strong  prejudices,  and  of 
insight  as  well.  And  he  was  thinking  of  his  patient ;  all 
things  in  his  mind  were  subservient  to  the  welfare  of  his 
patient,  or  to  what  he  considered  his  welfare. 

So,  as  these  two  men  drove  along  the  still  country  road, 
the  surgeon  for  the  first  half  of  the  way  was  thinking  rather 
intently  of  the  complications  which  he  thought  surrounded 
this  patient  of  his. 

"  It  would  be  quite  enough  for  a  well  man  to  contend 
with,"  he  was  saying  to  himself,  "  but  for  a  man  who  has 
had  that  kind  of  a  blow  on  his  head — and  who  gave  him 
the  blow  ?" 

At  this  point  in  his  meditations  Dr.  Jennings  raised  his 
head,  mentally  shook  himself,  took  out  his  note-book,  and 
began  studying  it.  For  several  days  thereafter,  however, 
there  were  moments  when  his  mind  reverted  to  that  case 
out  in  the  country.  It  was  altogether  more  interesting  than 
usual ;  there  seemed  to  be  a  good  many  things  that  might 
happen  in  connection  with  it.  He  must  have  Sands  write 
to  him  about  it. 


150  OUT   OF   STEP 

Portia,  left  alone  after  this  advice  had  been  given  her, 
continued  to  walk  on  up  the  green  lane.  The  blackbirds 
were  flying  about  as  they  were  always  flying  over  the 
meadow  through  which  the  lane  led  on  its  way  to  the 
pasture. 

Portia  fell  to  thinking  of  all  her  love-affairs.  She  did  not 
count  those  entanglements  wherein  her  heart  had  not  been 
enlisted.  There  had  been  two  or  three  times  in  her  life 
when  she  believed  sincerely  that  she  loved.  Something  had 
happened  so  that  she  did  not  marry,  and  she  had  come 
later  to  be  very  grateful  that  something  had  happened 
each  time. 

She  was  truly  in  love  now,  she  told  herself.  There  was  no 
mistake  as  to  her  feeling  for  Moore.  But  she  could  not  help 
wishing  that  there  had  not  been  those  other  times  when  she 
had  also  felt  that  there  was  no  mistake.  Such  thoughts  are 
often  the  penalty  of  being  in  any  measure  susceptible.  And 
Portia  had  been  susceptible  all  her  life,  and  had  flung  her- 
self headlong  into  some  emotions. 

Nevertheless,  this  was  real.  Nothing  in  the  world  should 
make  her  give  up  this.  Oh,  certainly,  there  was  no  doubt 
about  this.  Still,  if  Charmian  had  been  present,  it  might, 
perhaps,  have  been  a  satisfaction  to  ask,  "  Did  I  ever  love 
Caesar  so  ?" 

After  a  time  she  went  slowly  back  to  the  house.  Nely 
was  in  the  vegetable  garden,  which  extended  back  of  the 
porch.  She  was  picking  "  shell-beans  "  for  the  next  day. 
Just  within  the  porch  Mrs.  Scudder  was  arranging  to  make 
Dutch  cheese.  Matters  had  adjusted  themselves  so  that 
the  work  of  the  household  was  now  carried  on  smoothly, 
only  there  was,  as  Nely  often  fretfully  remarked,  "  an  awful 
lot  to  do." 

Mrs.  Scudder  had  not  been  flustered  of  late.  She  cher- 
ished an  ineradicable  conviction  that,  if  she  had  only  con- 
tinued mustard  plasters  long  enough  upon  the  back  of 
Moore's  head,  he  would  have  done  even  better  than  he  was 
doing  now.  She  told  every  one  of  this  conviction,  and  that 


THE   TIME   OF   THE   CLETHRA  151 

the  only  thing  in  the  way  of  her  being  allowed  to  follow  out 
this  treatment  was  the  strong  wish  entertained  by  doctors 
to  cut  people  up.  She  was  convinced  that  they  wished  to 
cut  people  just  for  the  pleasure  of  sewing  them  up  again. 
She  did  not  understand  it,  but  it  was  so. 

She  was  making  these  remarks  for  the  hundredth  time 
to  one  of  the  neighbors  now  as  Miss  Nunally  entered. 

The  girl  did  not  linger ;  she  went  directly  on  into  what 
was  usually  the  sitting-room,  but  which  had  of  late  been 
given  up  for  Moore's  use. 

The  young  man  was  lying  on  a  lounge.  He  seemed  to  be 
listening  to  the  nurse,  who  was  sitting  near  reading  items 
from  a  newspaper.  He  looked  up  languidly  as  Portia  en- 
tered. She  paused  by  the  nurse  and  extended  her  hand  to 
take  the  paper. 

"  I  will  read  now,"  she  said. 

The  nurse  hesitated  an  instant.  But  very  few  people 
succeeded  in  opposing  Portia,  and  the  nurse  was  not  one  of 
them.  She  rose  and  left  the  room,  casting  a  glance  of  some 
anxiety  back  at  her  charge. 

Moore  was  looking  at  Portia,  looking  intently,  but  as  if 
with  a  veil  over  his  eyes. 

It  was  curious  that  he  should  say  just  now  that  he  had 
been  thinking  for  two  days  of  asking  Portia  if  she  were 
tired  of  her  engagement  to  him. 

The  paper  dropped  from  the  girl's  hand.  She  flushed  a 
little  as  she  leaned  somewhat  forward  and  answered  : 

"  Tired  ?     How  can  you  ask  me  that  when  I  love  you  ?" 

The  voice  in  which  she  spoke  was  very  sweet  and  very 
genuine. 

Moore  put  his  hand  over  his  eyes,  and  with  it  still  there, 
he  asked : 

"  Are  you  quite  sure  of  that  ?" 

"Quite.     You  do  not  doubt  it ?" 

"  No  ;  no,  Portia,"  removing  his  hand  and  speaking  with 
a  trifle  more  of  animation.  "  Let  us  be  married  directly — 
to-morrow — to-day.  Don't  oppose  me.  I've  been  thinking. 


152  OUT   OF   STEP 

I  believe  it  is  best,  Portia,"  raising  his  tone  somewhat. 
"  You  are  not  going  to  oppose  me  ?" 

The  girl  was  now  kneeling  on  a  footstool  by  his  couch. 
She  was  hanging  over  him,  but  she  did  not  touch  him.  She 
smiled  at  him  so  that  his  eyes  grew  somewhat  brighter. 

"  I  ought  to  shrink,  to  demur,  to  be  womanly,"  she  said. 
"  But  no  ;  I  will  not  do  that.  I  am  ready." 

Moore  suddenly  put  his  hand  across  his  brow  again.  But 
at  the  same  time  his  other  hand  grasped  Portia's. 

"That  is  so  good  of  you,"  he  said,  gently.  "Now  let 
there  be  no  delay.  Ask  Mr.  Scudder  to  come  in  here.  Ask 
him  to  come  immediately." 

There  was  something  like  irritability  in  Moore's  manner. 

Portia  left  the  room.  She  was  pale,  and  her  lips  were 
compressed  so  that  they  showed  but  a  thin  line  of  scarlet. 

Nely  informed  Miss  Nunally  that  her  father  had  gone  to 
the  mill,  and  that  he  would  not  probably  be  back  before 
supper-time.  Was  there  anything  particular  wanted  ?  Did 
they  want  Dr.  Sands  ?  Was  Mr.  Moore  worse  ? 

But  Portia  turned  away  with  a  shake  of  the  head.  She 
was  in  no  mood  to  talk  to  Nely,  who  was  now  opening  the 
pods  of  her  shell-beans. 

When  Mr.  Scudder  did  return  he  was  sent  immediately  in 
to  see  the  young  man.  Mrs.  Scudder  sat  down  to  wait  her 
husband's  return.  She  said  she  guessed  she  could  bet 
what  Mr.  Moore  wanted.  She  added  that  things  were 
happening  so  fast  that  for  her  part  she  was  dizzy  with 
them  all. 

When,  after  a  five -minute  interview,  her  husband  ap- 
peared, Mrs.  Scudder  remarked  that  she  wasn't  going  to 
wait  an  instant;  "jest  tell  her  in  one  word." 

Mr.  Scudder  put  his  hands  in  his  pockets  and  grinned  as 
he  looked  at  his  wife. 

"  One  word  it  is  then,"  he  answered.     "  Minister." 

Mrs.  Scudder  showed  some  signs  of  becoming  flustered ; 
but  she  made  a  great  effort  towards  self-control. 

The  man  walked  to  the  door. 


THE   TIME   OF   THE    CLETHRA  153 

"  I'm  going  to  harness,"  he  said.  Mrs.  Scudder  followed 
him,  catching  a  shawl  from  a  hook  as  she  did  so. 

"  If  you  get  flustered,  Rebecca,"  said  Mr.  Scudder,  stern- 
ly, "  I  d'  know  what  I  shall  do." 

The  two  went  to  the  barn  together.  They  both  consid- 
ered it  fortunate  that  Nely  was  out  of  the  way;  she  had,  in 
fact,  gone  to  see  Salome. 

"  Shall  you  go  for  the  Baptis'  or  the  Orthodox?"  inquired 
Mrs.  Scudder,  ignoring  the  fact  that  the  Baptist  might  also 
be  orthodox. 

"  Orthodox,"  was  the  brief  answer. 

Mr.  Scudder  had  slipped  the  halter  from  the  horse,  and 
was  holding  its  head  under  his  arm  with  the  bridle  in  his 
other  hand. 

"  It's  further,"  remarked  Mrs.  Scudder. 

"Not  much.  'N'  Mr.  Pope  needs  the  fee,  I  reckon.  I 
wonder  what  Mis'  Hill  will  say." 

Mr.  Scudder  chuckled. 

His  wife  drew  her  shawl  tighter  round  her  head.  She 
was  asking  herself  what  S'lome  Gerry  would  say,  but  some- 
thing kept  her  from  putting  that  thought  into  words.  She 
was  conscious  of  a  great  strain  on  her  mind  to  keep  pace 
with  events. 

"  It  always  seems  a  bad  sign  for  a  girl  to  be  married 
'thout  no  wedding-dress,"  she  remarked. 

Mr.  Scudder  paused  in  the  act  of  backing  the  horse  into 
the  shafts. 

"Wedding-dress!"  he  cried  in  scorn.  "Women  are 
queer  things.  Now,  I'm  thinkin'  of  the  young  feller.  He 
don't  seem  quite  right  to  me,  somehow.  But  then  I  didn't 
use  to  know  him,  so  mebby  he  does  seem  right,  after  all. 
Back-sh-sh  !  I  say,"  to  the  horse,  which  cautiously  placed 
himself  in  the  shafts  and  stood  motionless  while  the  harness 
was  hitched  to  him. 

"  I  do  hope  Mr.  Pope  won't  think  strange,"  said  Mrs. 
Scudder,  tremulously. 

"  I  don't  care  a  darn  whether  he  thinks  strange  or  not," 


154  OUT   OF    STEP 

was  the  masculine  rejoinder.  "  Now  I'm  goin'.  You  may 
tell  the  young  feller  that  I've  gone.  I  ought  to  be  back  in 
an  hour,  I  should  think." 

Mr.  Scudder  drove  leisurely  out  of  the  yard.  Miss  Nu- 
nally,  in  the  small  chamber  above,  saw  him  go,  and  knew 
why  he  was  going. 

It  has  been  stated  that  the  Scudder  steed  was  not  given 
to  prancing  rapidly  through  space,  and  it  was  with  extreme 
slowness  that  it  now  turned  the  corner  of  the  road  and  was 
at  last  out  of  sight. 

Portia  knew  that  Mr.  Scudder  could  not  return  in  less 
than  an  hour.  She  felt  it  impossible  to  stay  quietly  there 
in  that  room. 

She  must  move,  walk ;  some  way  she  must  counteract  the 
excitement  which  ruled  her. 

She  left  the  house  and  went  quickly  across  the  field.  But 
first  she  looked  in  at  the  door  of  Moore's  room.  He  was 
still  lying  on  the  lounge,  and,  curiously,  she  thought,  he  was 
still  holding  his  hand  over  his  eyes. 

Mr.  Scudder  was  not  afflicted  with  too  much  uneasiness. 
He  was  resting,  and  he  had  been  hurried  all  day.  He 
leaned  forward  on  his  knees,  and  allowed  Molly  to  walk  as 
she  would.  He  was  old  enough  to  know  that  there  was  al- 
ways plenty  of  time  to  marry.  He  considered  that  the 
whole  affair  was  getting  to  be  tedious.  He  didn't  know 
how  the  women  folks  kept  up  such  an  interest  in  it. 

The  narrow  road  twisted  among  bushes  and  young  trees. 
The  bushes  grew  to  the  wheel  ruts,  almost.  It  was  nearly 
dark.  The  air  was  sweet,  excessively  sweet.  The  man 
snuffed  it  with  a  dim  kind  of  pleasure.  The  crickets  were 
very  loud  in  their  calls  to-night. 

There  was  somebody  in  advance.  It  was  a  girl.  It 
walked  like  Salome  Gerry.  She  had  turned  into  the  road 
from  a  path  ahead,  and  was  going  forward  at  a  quick 
gait. 

In  a  few  moments  Mr.  Scudder,  who  had  hastened  Molly 
a  little,  overtook  her. 


THE- TIME   OF   THE   CLETHRA  155 

"  Hullo,  S'lome  !"  he  said,  cheerfully,  "  goin'  my  way  ? 
Better  git  in,  hadn't  ye  ?" 

Salome  turned  and  said  : 

"  Good-evening,  Mr.  Scudder." 

He  saw  that  her  hands  were  full  of  the  white  spikes  of 
the  clethra.  The  flower  looked  ghostly  white  in  this  semi- 
darkness,  and  the  warm,  damp  air  brought  out  its  odor  al- 
most overpoweringly. 

"  Better  git  right  in,"  repeated  the  man.  He  was  still 
resting  comfortably  on  his  knees.  There  was  time  enough. 

"  Thank  you,"  said  the  girl.  "  I'm  not  going  far ;  I  was 
only  out  for  a  walk." 

"  All  right.  Bet  you  can't  guess  where  I'm  bound,"  Mr. 
Scudder  laughed.  "  You  may  guess  all  night  and  you 
couldn't  do  it." 

"  Then  I  won't  try." 

Salome  leaned  against  the  wheel.  The  perfume  of  the 
flowers  she  carried  seemed  to  fill  the  air. 

"  There's  a  little  too  much  of  that  smell  for  me,"  re- 
marked Mr.  Scudder,  critically..  "But  I  can't  stand  lay- 
locks  even,  when  Nely  has  'urn  round.  So  you  ain't  goin' 
to  guess  ?" 

"  How  can  I  ?" 

"  Well,  you  needn't  try.  But  we  are  havin'  things  happen 
over  to  our  house  now,  I  tell  you.  We  c'n  hardly  keep 
track  of  'em  all.  What  do  you  say  to  a  weddin'  jest  for 
variety  ?" 

Salome  stood  up  and  away  from  the  wheel. 

"  A  wedding  ?"  she  said.  "  You  must  mean  Mr.  Moore 
and  Miss  Nunally  ?" 

"  Exactly.  I'm  bound  for  Mr.  Pope's  now.  When  do 
you  s'pose  Mis'  Hill  '11  git  wind  of  it  ?  Don't  you  go  'n' 
tell." 

"  Oh,  I  won't  tell.  You  may  trust  me,"  answered 
Salome. 

"  I  d'  know  what  my  wife  'n'  Nely  '11  do  if  things  keep 
up  at  this  rate,"  remarked  Mr.  Scudder.  "  I  guess  I'll  be 


156  OUT  OF   STEP 

goin'.  So  you  won't  let  me  give  you  a  lift  ?  Be  a  joke  if 
both  ministers  were  gone,  wouldn't  it  ?  I'd  keep  right  on 
to  the  Far  Corners  in  that  case.  Got  to  git  a  minister 
somehow." 

Molly,  urged  by  lines  and  voice,  now  resumed  her  walk, 
while  Molly's  master  said  to  himself :  "  S'lome's  all  right. 
Guess  there  wa'n't  nothin'  in  that  notion  'bout  her  'n' 
Moore." 

Salome,  after  Mr.  Scudder  had  driven  out  of  sight,  sat 
down  for  a  few  moments  by  the  road-side.  She  fell  to  ar- 
ranging carefully  the  flowers  she  carried.  She  seemed 
greatly  absorbed  in  her  occupation.  But  in  a  very  short 
time  she  rose,  stood  an  instant,  as  if  not  knowing  which 
way  to  go,  then  walked  forward  in  the  direction  from  which 
Mr.  Scudder  had  come. 

She  walked  so  fast  that  it  was  but  a  brief  space  of  time 
before  she  entered  the  Scudder  house.  The  lamps  were 
lighted,  but  there  was  no  lamp  in  Mr.  Moore's  sitting-room. 
The  nurse  was  strolling  in  the  yard.  Salome  did  not  speak 
to  any  one.  She  nodded  at  Mrs.  Scudder,  who  was  adjust- 
ing a  collar  to  her  best  black  dress  before  the  looking-glass 
that  hung  over  the  sink. 

The  girl  saw  that  there  was  a  familiar  figure  in  the  dusk 
of  the  sitting-room.  She  stepped  hesitatingly  within  the 
door. 

Moore  leaned  forward  from  the  depths  of  a  large  chair. 

"  That  is  not  the  nurse  ?"  he  said,  sharply. 

"  No,"  was  the  answer. 

Moore  rose  and  extended  his  hands,  but  he  sat  down 
again  quickly,  and  put  a  hand  for  an  instant  up  to  his 
head. 

"  I  wish  you  would  come  close  to  me,"  he  said.  "  Why 
do  you  stand  off  there  ?  I  knew  when  I  heard  your  step 
in  the  yard  that  it  was  you." 

Salome  advanced  and  put  her  hand  in  his  extended  palm. 

After  a  momentary  silence,  Moore  spoke,  in  something  of 
the  tone  of  an  invalid  who  must  not  be  crossed. 


THE    TIME   OF    THE   CLETHRA  157 

"  How  cruel  you  are,  Salome  !  You  have  not  been  here 
once  since  I've  been  shut  up  in  this  house.  Perhaps  you 
didn't  know  I  was  here  ?"  hopefully. 

"  Yes,  I  knew." 

Salome  did  not  think  it  worth  while  to  explain  that  she 
had  been  there  at  the  very  first. 

"  You  knew  ?     Oh,  Salome  !" 

Moore  grasped  the  girl's  hand  in  both  his  and  bent  his 
forehead  to  her  fingers.  Her  othei1  hand,  full  of  the  clethra 
flowers,  hung  by  her  side.  The  room  was  filled  with  the 
strong  odor. 

"  I  don't  know  why  it  is,"  said  Moore  without  raising  his 
head,  "  but  sometimes  I  don't  feel  as  if  I  thought  quite 
clearly.  I  suppose  that  will  pass  away." 

"  Yes,"  said  Salome,  "  that  will  pass ;  and  you  will  be 
well  again." 

"  Kneel  down  by  me,"  presently  said  the  young  man. 

She  knelt  down  as  he  had  said,  and  he  put  his  head  on 
her  shoulder. 

It  was  Moore  who  broke  the  silence  that  followed. 

"  Why  should  we  ever  part  again  ?"  he  asked. 

There  was  no  answer  to  this. 

"  You  sent  for  me,"  said  Moore,  "  and  I  came.  Some- 
thing seems  to  have  happened  since  ;  and  I  think  some- 
thing happened  before.  But  it  is  no  matter,  not  the  slight- 
est. We  are  together  now,  and  we  will  stay  together." 

Moore  felt  the  girl's  form  vibrate  beneath  his  head. 

"  I  don't  seem  to  care  really  about  anything  else,"  he 
continued,  "  only  that  we  shall  be  together." 

Salome  dropped  her  flowers  and  clasped  her  arm  about 
Moore's  neck. 

She  was  remembering  what  she  had  promised  her  mother, 
and  she  was  thinking  that  she  should  keep  no  such  prom- 
ises. To  keep  promises  ?  In  the  next  moment  she  had 
even  forgotten  them. 

"  I  saw  Mr.  Scudder,"  she  said.  "  Yes,"  said  Moore, 
with  some  suddenness.  "I  sent  him;  but  —  why,"  with 


158  OUT   OF   STEP 

greater  force,  "  I'm  not  going  to  marry  her.  I  thought  it 
would  be  best.  But  since  you  have  come ;  Salome — ' 

The  young  man  stopped.  He  pressed  his  head  still  more 
closely  on  the  girl's  shoulder. 

"  You  arrange  it,"  he  said.  "  I  want  you  to  arrange  it — 
so  that  we  shall  not  part,  Salome.  Be  sure  that  you  ar- 
range it  so  that  we  shall  not  part.  Nothing  else  is  of  any 
consequence." 

Salome  was  motionless  as  she  knelt  there,  supporting 
Moore's  head. 

A  carriage  entered  the  yard.  Mrs.  Scudder,  who  had 
found  that  she  could  not  distinguish  a  word  those  two  said, 
hurried  to  see  who  had  come.  She  told  herself  that  Dwight 
could  not  have  been  to  Mr.  Pope's  and  back  again,  unless 
Molly  had  flown,  and  it  was  not  Molly's  habit  to  fly. 

Nevertheless,  it  was  Mr.  Scudder  who  spoke  from  the 
carriage. 

"  In  luck  this  time,  Rebecca,"  he  said ;  "  I  met  Mr.  Pope 
coming  over  here  tp  call ;  so  I  took  him  right  in.  He 
knows  what  he's  got  to  do.  It  don't  take  a  minister  long 
to  catch  on  to  a  wedding  now,  I  tell  you." 

The  two  men  laughed. 

"  Walk  right  in,"  said  Mrs.  Scudder  with  formal  polite- 
ness. "  Miss  Nunally,  she  went  out  somewhere  ;  you  see 
we  wa'n't  expectin'  of  you  for  an  hour  or  more.  But  I 
guess  it  won't  make  no  difference.  She'll  be  sure  to  be 
right  back.  You  ain't  none  acquainted  with  Mr.  Moore,  be 
you,  Mr.  Pope  ?" 


A   MARRIAGE 

THE  minister  stood,  large  and  portly,  with  his  black  coat 
buttoned  tightly  about  him.  The  kitchen  ceiling  seemed 
very  low  with  him  beneath  it.  He  held  his  hat  in  his  hand, 
glancing  about  him.  He  was  conscious  of  feeling  a  great 
deal  of  curiosity,  but  he  tried  to  conceal  that  emotion. 

The 'next  room  was  not  lighted;  the  one  kerosene  lamp 
was  on  the  sink  shelf  in  the  kitchen. 

"  No,"  said  Mr.  Pope,  "  I  have  never  met  Mr.  Moore.  I 
hope  he  is  doing  well." 

"Oh  yes,  I  expect  so,"  was  the  answer;  "but  if  I'd  stuck 
to  mustard  plasters  jest  's  I'd  begun — " 

"  Rebecca,"  interrupted  Mr.  Scudder,  "  I  guess  mebby 
'tain't  no  time  for  mustard  plasters  now.  Mebby  you'd  bet- 
ter interdooce  Mr.  Moore ;  then  if  the  minister  wants  a  lit- 
tle talk  he  c'n  have  it.  Take  this  lamp  right  in  'n'  I'll  light 
another." 

Conscious  of  having  her  best  black  dress  on  for  the  occa- 
sion, Mrs.  Scudder  took  the  lamp  and  preceded  the  minis- 
ter into  the  sitting-room. 

Salome  had  risen  and  was  standing  near  the  chair  where 
Moore  sat. 

Mr.  Pope's  eyes  first  rested  on  her  face.  She -smiled  and 
answered  his  "  Good-evening."  For  some  reason  Mr.  Pope 
found  it  difficult  to  withdraw  his  glance.  Salome  Gerry  had 
always  been  more  or  less  of  a  puzzle  to  him  ;  he  had  never 
known  definitely  whether  he  approved  of  her  or  not. 

"Let  me  make  you  acquainted  with  Mr.  Moore,  Mr. 
Pope,"  said  Mrs.  Scudder,  in  that  exceedingly  proper  voice 


l6o  OUT   OF   STEP 

which  some  people  use  for  introductions.  It  always  made 
her  feel  of  some  importance  to  introduce  two  persons.  She 
hastened  out  now  as  the  two  men  shook  hands.  She  went 
for  the  "centre  lamp,"  an  article  with  a  large  globe  and 
some  pieces  of  glass  dangling  round  it.  This  always  stood 
on  the  "  centre  table  "  in  the  middle  of  the  parlor,  which 
was  at  the  other  side  of  the  house. 

Mrs.  Scudder  was  sure  that  this  lamp  ought  to  be  lighted 
when  there  was  a  wedding  in  the  house. 

"  I'm  lookin'  for  Miss  Nunally  every  minute,"  she  said,  as 
she  deposited  the  lamp  on  a  stand.  "  We  wa'n't  expectin' 
of  Mr.  Pope  so  soon.  If  Nely  was  to  home  I'd  send  her 
out  after  Miss  Nunally.  But  I  guess  she  won't  be  long." 

Moore  had  shaken  hands  mechanically  with  the  minister. 
He  had  responded  to  that  gentleman's  remarks,  but  he  did 
not  conceal  his  impatience. 

"  We  will  not  wait,"  he  said. 

"  What  ?"  said  Mrs.  Scudder,  blankly.  Her  mind  imme- 
diately went  back  to  the  time  when  she  did  not  use  mustard 
on  that  young  man  as  she  ought. 

"  We  will  not  wait,"  repeated  Moore,  sharply.  He  turned 
towards  Salome,  who  had  been  standing  near.  He  extend- 
ed his  hand.  "  Come,"  he  said. 

Salome  took  a  step  nearer  and  put  her  hand  in  Moore's, 
which  closed  strongly  over  it. 

Mrs.  Scudder  ruffled  like  a  bewildered  hen. 

"  But,  but,"  she  began,  "  you'll  have  to  wait,  you  know ; 
she  ain't  come,  you  know." 

Mr.  Pope  hardly  knew  what  to  say.  His  underlying 
thought,  however,  was  that  a  man  generally  knew  what  wom- 
an he  wanted  for  his  wife,  and  that  he  should  rather  let  the 
man  himself  decide  than  any  of  the  people  who  might  hap- 
pen to  be  near.  Of  course  the  Scudders  had  made  a  mis- 
take ;  that  was  the  extremely  simple  explanation. 

Moore  put  his  disengaged  hand  on  the  arm  of  his  chair 
and  stood  upright.  There  was  his  old  manner  discernible 
as  he  turned  his  head  towards  the  minister. 


A   MARRIAGE  l6l 

"Will  you  marry  us,"  he  asked  ;  "directly?" 

"  Certainly,"  replied  Mr.  Pope,  stepping  forward. 

Mrs.  Scudder  ruffled  more  and  more.  She  said  afterwards 
that  she  "felt  as  if  she  was  jest  about  crazy."  She  actual- 
ly stepped  between  the  minister  and  the  two  who  stood  in 
front  of  him. 

"  She  'ain't  come  yet !"  she  cried  again. 

"  Rebecca !"  cried  Mr.  Scudder  from  the  doorway,  where 
he  had  just  appeared  from  the  barn.  Mrs.  Scudder  drew 
back.  Her  husband  told  her  that  it  wa'n't  none  of  their 
business;  and  gen'rally  speakin'  a  feller  knew  who  he  meant 
to  marry.  He  s'posed  they  hadn't  understood  it.  He 
could  not  help  adding  under  his  breath  that  he  didn't  be- 
lieve the  devil  himself  understood  it.  He  advanced  and 
seized  his  wife  by  the  arm  as  if  to  keep  her  by  force  from 
interfering  any  further,  and  he  held  her  so  tightly  that  she 
writhed  in  his  grasp.  She  besought  Dwight  in  a  loud  whis- 
per to  go  out  'n'  see  if  he  couldn't  find  Miss  Nunally.  In 
reply,  Dwight  shook  the  woman  slightly.  He  said  he  wasn't 
going  out. 

Mr.  Pope  did  not  apparently  notice  this  interview  be- 
tween husband  and  wife.  He  was  silent  for  a  moment, 
standing  before  the  man  and  woman. 

There  was  no  possible  mistaking  their  meaning.  Moore's 
attitude  was  erect  and  imperious.  He  was  holding  Salome 
firmly  by  the  hand.  She  was  not  looking  at  him  or  at  any 
one.  She  seemed  to  be  gazing  into  space.  There  was  an 
indefinable  glory  in  her  eyes  which  even  Dwight  Scudder 
perceived.  Afterwards  he  confided  to  his  daughter  that 
somehow  Salome  Gerry's  face  that  night  made  him  shiver, 
and  he  didn't  expect  he  should  live  long  enough  to  for- 
get it. 

Even  when  Mr.  Pope  began  to  speak,  Mrs.  Scudder  made 
a  final  squirm  in  her  husband's  hold,  and  said  in  a  half 
voice  that  she  didn't  think  Miss  Nunally  'd  be  gone  more'n 
a  minute,  'n'  they  might  just  as  well  wait. 

This  time  Mr.  Scudder  did  not  reply.    His  eyes  were  fixed 


I 62  OUT   OF    STEP 

on  Salome.  He  heard  her  say  "  Yes  "  in  the  lowest  possi- 
ble voice,  but  in  one  that  was  clearly  audible. 

Moore's  tone  was  too  loud ;  he  seemed  in  a  hurry.  The 
instant  the  very  short  ceremony  was  over  he  sat  down  in 
the  large  chair  from  which  he  had  risen.  He  kept  his  hold 
of  Salome's  hand  as  if  he  feared  that  some  one  would  try 
to  deprive  him  of  it.  He  did  not  in  the  least  notice  Mr. 
Pope  when  that  gentleman  attempted  some  words  of  con- 
gratulation. 

Seeing  this,  Mr.  Pope  immediately  desisted  and  turned 
away,  going  back  into  the  kitchen,  followed  by  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Scudder. 

The  nurse,  who  had  also  been  a  witness  of  the  ceremony, 
joined  the  group  in  the  kitchen. 

A  somewhat  significant  silence  was  upon  these  people. 

Mr.  Pope  had  directly  taken  up  his  hat  and  gone  to  the 
door,  where  he  paused.  His  face  showed  perplexity  and 
possibly  misgiving.  At  last  he  said,  looking  at  Mr.  Scudder  : 

"  It's  all  right,  I  suppose  ?" 

Mr.  Scudder  shook  himself  with  considerable  force  before 
he  replied  in  a  violent  whisper  : 

"  Of  course  it's  all  right.  Why  shouldn't  it  be  ?  We  ain't 
goin'  to  dictate  to  a  man,  be  we  ?  I  don't  s'pose  it's  any  of 
his  business  if  we'd  got  another  woman  into  our  heads." 

"  Dwight,"  said  his  wife  with  severity,  "  it  was  another 
woman.  I  ain't  a  fool.  I  jest  do  wish  I'd  stuck  to  that 
mustard.  I — " 

"  Oh,  shet  up  !"  in  uncontrollable  excitement  from  Mr. 
Scudder.  "Rebecca,  you'd  ought  to  use  your  common-sense 
if  you've  got  any  to  use.  Mr.  Pope,  I  c'n  drive  you  home 
's  well  's  not.  Only  my  mare  's  so  slow  that  you  won't  git 
home  no  quicker  'n  if  you  walked." 

Mr.  Pope  said  he  was  much  obliged,  but  he  would  rather 
walk ;  he  wanted  the  exercise.  He  did  not  say  that  he  was 
in  a  hurry  to  go.  As  he  put  his  hand  on  the  door  latch 
the  door  was  pushed  in  from  the  outside,  and  Miss  Nunally 
entered.  The  group  instantly  drew  back. 


A   MARRIAGE  163 

Portia  was  conscious  with  a  peculiar  keenness  of  the  gaze 
which  the  nurse  fixed  upon  her.  She  resented  that  gaze, 
and  stared  haughtily  back. 

The  unusual  brilliance  of  the  light  in  the  next  room  was 
noticeable.  She  remarked  it,  but  supposed  that  Mrs.  Scud- 
der  had  thought  best  to  illuminate  with  that  sacred  centre 
lamp  on  account  of  the  marriage  ceremony  about  to  take 
place.  And  this  must  be  the  minister. 

Portia  flushed  as  she  glanced  at  Mr.  Pope. 

The  strange  emotion  that  had  come  to  her  the  instant  she 
opened  the  door  increased  until  in  a  moment  she  felt  chok- 
ing ;  and  she  could  not  tell  why.  She  did  not  show  that  she 
was  choking,  however.  She  stood  with  her  head  flung  up. 

Mrs.  Scudder  forgot  to  introduce  Mr.  Pope ;  and  Mr. 
Pope  could  only  gaze  stupidly  at  this  brilliant  vision  of  a 
girl  that  had  suddenly  come  in  out  of  the  darkness. 

Had  she  expected  to  be  married  to  Moore  to-night  ? 

The  minister  hurried  from  the  room.  He  was  vaguely 
indignant  that  he  had  come  at  all.  But  why  should  he  not 
come  ?  And  what  was  the  matter  here  ?  What  had  been 
the  talk  about  waiting  for  Miss  Nunally  ?  That  was  Miss 
Nunally,  he  supposed,  who  had  just  come. 

But  the  young  man  and  Salome  Gerry,  who  had  just  been 
married — they  were  old  enough,  surely,  to  know  their  own 
minds. 

Mr.  Pope,  as  he  strode  along  the  dark,  solitary  road,  had 
some  shadowy  compunctions  as  to  what  he  had  done.  He 
had  lived  long  enough  to  learn  that  what  his  wife  often  told 
him  about  himself  had  some  truth  in  it,  that  he  was  not 
always  equal  to  emergencies.  He  could  not  be  sure  of 
himself  to  act  quickly  and  rightly  at  the  same  time.  And 
yet  what  should  he  have  done  ? 

He  had  heard  about  the  Scudders  finding  that  young 
man,  and  taking  him  home.  He  had  heard  that  Moore's 
betrothed  had  been  sent  for,  and  had  come.  Until  within  a 
week  Mr.  Pope  had  been  away  for  his  vacation.  When  he 
came  back  his  wife  had  related  the  occurrences  of  the  par- 


164  OUT   OF    STEP 

ish  to  him.  His  wife  was  one  of  those  who  firmly  believed 
that  Salome  Gerry  had  been  "  disappointed,"  and  that  the 
disappointment  was  connected  with  that  young  man  who 
had  been  hurt.  Why  hadn't  somebody  found  out  how  he 
had  been  hurt?  What  if  he  had  said  he  had  had  a  little 
quarrel  with  some  one  and  had  come  to  blows,  and  he  had 
happened  to  get  the  worst  of  it  ? 

Mrs.  Pope  always  wound  up  these  private  conversations 
on  this  topic  with  her  husband  by  saying  that  she  "  couldn't 
help  loving  Salome,  but  that  she  didn't  know  about  her ; 
she  couldn't  quite  make  her  out." 

"  But  then,"  with  a  sigh,  "  it  isn't  necessary  that  I  should 
make  her  out." 

Mr.  Pope  wondered  what  his  wife  would  say  when  he 
told  her  that  he  had  just  married  Salome  to  that  young 
man  at  Scudder's.  And  now  the  minister  felt  sure  that 
the  other  young  woman  had  expected  to  be  married  to- 
night. 

Mr.  Pope  smiled  somewhat  grimly  in  the  darkness.  He 
thrashed  his  cane  with  unnecessary  violence  against  the 
bushes  by  the  wayside. 

When  he  came  to  a  road  which  branched  from  the  main 
highway  and  led  towards  the  house  where  the  Gerrys  lived, 
the  minister  paused.  He  was  seized  with  a  strong  wish  to 
talk  with  Mrs.  Gerry.  Did  she  know?  He  was  sure  she 
did  not.  In  the  five  years  during  which  Mr.  Pope  had  been 
settled  over  this  parish  he  had  learned  that  Mrs.  Gerry  was 
one  whose  integrity  was  a  part  of  all  her  life. 

He  did  not  hesitate  at  the  corner  long. 

"  I  will  go  and  see  her,"  he  said  aloud. 

At  the  Scudder  home  there  was  a  curious  absence  of  any 
melodrama  when  perhaps  melodrama  might  have  been  ex- 
pected. 

Portia  stood  there  in  the  kitchen  for  the  briefest  space  of 
time.  Then  she  entered  the  sitting-room,  where  the  light 
was  brilliant  upon  her  and  upon  the  two  other  occupants 
of  the  room. 


A   MARRIAGE  165 

Moore  was  leaning  back  in  the  large  chair,  while  Salome 
stood  somewhat  behind  him.  The  young  man's  face  was 
dark  with  the  rush  of  blood  to  it ;  but  Salome  was  pale,  and 
there  was  a  radiant  solemnity  upon  her  countenance.  Her 
eyes  met  those  of  Portia  in  a  steady  gaze. 

It  was  then  that  Miss  Nunally  showed  that  she  was  thor- 
oughbred. Her  slight  figure  stiffened  as  if  with  steel.  The 
gleam  of  her  eyes  was  unswerving. 

"  I'm  sure  I  ought  to  congratulate  you  both,"  she  said. 

"Yes,"  replied  Moore,  emphatically. 

His  gaze  clouded  as  he  continued,  with  an  effort, 

"Perhaps  there  are  explanations,  apologies,  Salome," 
turning  to  her ;  "  are  there  apologies  ?" 

Before  Salome  could  reply  Portia  spoke  again  : 

"  Oh  no  !  no  apologies  between  us,  I  am  sure.  Only 
congratulations  for  you  both ;  and  good-night,  and  good- 
bye. I  shall  catch  the  next  train  to  Boston,  and  be  at  the 
North  Shore  again  in  a  few  hours." 

She  turned  away.  She  paused  in  the  kitchen  to  speak  to 
Mrs.  Scudder  with  unusual  affability.  That  lady  was  now 
so  completely  bewildered  that,  as  she  afterwards  expressed 
it,  she  did  not  know  whether  her  head  was  off  her  shoulders 
or  on. 

Portia  met  the  gaze  of  the  nurse  with  so  calm  a  stare 
that  the  nurse's  eyelids  drooped  and  she  flushed  with  anger. 

It  seemed  for  the  moment  almost  impossible  not  to  think 
that  they  had  all  been  mistaken,  and  that  this  was  not,  after 
all,  the  woman  who  had  expected  to  marry  Mr.  Moore  to- 
night. 

"  Well !"  said  the  nurse,  with  a  long  breath,  as  Portia  left 
the  room. 

Mrs.  Scudder's  eyes  were  protruding  in  what  seemed  to 
be  a  physically  painful  manner.  What  she  said  was  that 
she  never  expected  to  see  straight  again. 

The  nurse  sat  down.  She  hardly  knew  what  to  do. 
Her  one  dominant  emotion  was  admiration  for  Miss  Nu- 
nally. 


1 66  OUT  OF   STEP 

Before  any  one  had  spoken  the  door  through  which  Por- 
tia had  left  the  room  was  opened  again,  and  she  appeared. 
She  looked  across  the  nurse  to  Mrs.  Scudder.  She  asked 
if  Mr.  Scudder  would  take  her  to  the  station. 

The  woman  thus  addressed  put  her  hands  to  her  head 
helplessly  as  she  answered  : 

"  I  d'  know.  Where,  is  Dwight  ?"  It  transpired  that 
D wight  had  gone  to  the  barn  to  see,  as  he  explained  after- 
wards, if  he  could  find  his  wits.  So  Portia  went  to  the 
barn  in  search  of  him. 

Salome  saw  her  go.  She  glanced  down  at  Moore,  whose 
head  was  thrown  back  against  his  chair. 

"  I  must  speak  to  her,"  she  said,  hurriedly. 

"Yes,"  was  the  answer,  "but  it's  all  right.  Nothing  is 
of  any  consequence  since — "  Moore  paused  at  this  word, 
looking  up  at  his  companion. 

In  a  moment  Salome  had  left  the  house  and  was  hurry- 
ing across  the  yard  towards  the  barn,  which  loomed  blackly 
in  the  dim  light. 

The  wide  door  in  front  was  rolled  back,  as  also  the  door 
in  the  rear,  so  that  a  line  of  clear  sky,  faintly  tinged  with 
apple-green,  was  visible.  Against  this  light,  at  the  farther 
opening,  Salome  saw  Portia's  figure  standing  without  mo- 
tion. She  almost  ran  towards  it  in  her  fear  lest  Miss  Nu- 
nally  would  escape.  But  Miss  Nunally  made  no  movement 
to  go.  She  simply  turned  her  head  slightly  towards  the 
new-comer  and  was  silent. 

There  is  nothing  more  confusing  than  silence  can  be  at 
times ;  and  nothing  more  effective  in  putting  one  in  the 
wrong. 

Salome  had  thought  as  she  had  hastened  from  the  house 
that  there  was  a  torrent  of  words  ready  for  her  lips  to  utter. 
What  had  just  happened  had  come  so  suddenly,  so  over- 
whelmingly, it  had  carried  her  off  her  feet,  metaphorically 
speaking,  and  in  her  present  mood  she  felt  that  love  justified 
anything.  She  had  broken  her  promise  to  her  mother ;  she 
had  aided  Moore  in  breaking  in  an  unmanly  way  a  solemn 


A    MARRIAGE  167 

engagement ;  she  had  thrown  herself  headlong  into  the  deed 
which  had  been  done  to-night.  Still,  as  she  looked  at  the 
girl  before  her,  she  felt  also  that  she  did  not  repent  in  the 
least.  In  fact,  she  was  not  given  to  repentance.  Some- 
times, for  her  mother's  sake,  she  thought  she  ought  to  feel 
like  repenting.  But  there  was  not  the  slightest  use  in  life 
if  it  must  be  given  up  to  that  kind  of  thing.  Nevertheless, 
Salome  knew  that  there  was  a  sword-thrust  in  her  soul  as 
she  stood  there.  She  believed  that  she  had  a  right  to 
marry  Moore,  since  they  loved  each  other ;  still — 

Salome's  hands  unconsciously  shut  tightly  as  they  hung 
down  by  her  side.  She  was  aware  of  an  indescribable 
suffering  at  which  she  rebelled.  Since  the  man  she  loved, 
and  who  loved  her,  was  now  her  husband,  surely  she  ought 
not  to  suffer  in  this  way. 

"  Portia,"  she  said,  after  having  waited  a  little,  hoping 
that  Portia  would  speak. 

"  Yes,"  was  the  reply. 

"  I  came  out  here  to  speak  to  you,"  said  Salome. 

"  Yes,"  said  Portia  again.  Salome  felt  her  lips  stiffen. 
But  she  persevered  in  her  attempt. 

"I  wanted  to  tell  you  —  I  wanted  to  explain  —  I  wanted 
you  to  understand — " 

Here  there  came  a  long  pause,  during  which  the  crickets 
in  the  newly  gathered  hay  in  the  loft  pierced  the  air  with 
their  combined  shrillness. 

"  It  was  so  sudden,"  said  Salome,  weakly. 

No  response  ;  not  even  the  monosyllable. 

"  I  wish  I  could  make  you  understand,"  began  Salome 
again. 

The  other  girl  remained  silent. 

"  It  was  not  planned  at  all,"  hastily  went  on  Salome.  "  It 
— it  just  happened ;  and  oh,  Portia,  I  love  him  so  !" 

Portia  turned  quickly.  She  seemed  about  to  speak  ;  but 
she  only  laughed  instead. 

"  I  mean  that  my  whole  life  shall  be  given  to  him ;  I 
mean  that  he  shall  be  happy." 


1 68  OUT   OF   STEP 

Salome's  voice  thrilled  upon  the  words.  Still  the  words 
seemed  poor  and  cheap  to  her.  She  was  confident  that  no 
one  in  the  world  had  ever  loved  as  she  loved. 

Miss  Nunally  faced  round  now  fully  towards  her  con> 
panion. 

"You  have  begun  well,"  she  said. 

"  What  ?" 

Salome,  like  all  sensitive  natures,  was  half  afraid  of 
omens  and  of  anything  which  she  did  not  understand.  Why 
did  she  at  this  moment  recall  with  a  shudder  how  the 
crows  had  flown  above  her  and  Moore  on  the  Florida 
coast  ?  But  those  days  were  gone.  Everything  was  dif- 
ferent now.  Now  she  was  going  to  be  happy. 

"  Salome,"  said  Portia,  still  feeling  strongly  that  vague 
wonder  as  to  why  she  did  not  hate  the  woman  before  her, 
"I  must  tell  you  one  thing  which  you  do  not  seem  to  know. 
It's  the  rock  ahead  of  you." 

Salome  clasped  her  hands.  She  was  so  much  under  the 
control  of  emotion  that  she  was  half  afraid  of  herself.  She 
was  dimly  aware  that  it  was  a  good  thing  to  have  a  grip 
somewhere — a  grip  that  never  yielded.  Her  mother  had 
that. 

"  There's  a  great  difference  between  Mr.  Moore  and 
you,"  said  Portia,  with  a  kind  of  grimness.  "  It  rather  re- 
lieves me  to  tell  you  that  he  is  honorable,  and  you  are 
dishonorable.  When  he  finds  that  you  are  dishonorable — " 

"  Oh,  stop !  stop  !" 

Salome's  cry  was  uttered  in  a  low  voice,  but  it  was  very 
sharp. 

"The  truth  won't  hurt  you,"  continued  Portia,  calmly. 
"  It  does  me  a  lot  of  good  to  tell  you  the  truth.  I  don't 
boast  about  myself,  but  I've  told  you  there  are  one  or  two 
things  I  couldn't  do.  Even  if  Mr.  Moore  wanted  to  break 
with  me  he  would  never  do  it  in  this  way.  He  would  have 
a  manliness  about  it.  He  would  not  be  mean.  He  would 
not  leave  me  to  come  into  the  house,  as  I  did  to-night,  ex- 
pecting to  marry  him." 


A   MARRIAGE  169 

Here  the  speaker  made  a  gesture  which  was  more  full  of 
meaning  than  her  words. 

"  Let  us  have  it  out,"  she  said,  speaking  faster  and  faster 
as  she  went  on.  "  I  shall  die  if  I  don't  have  it  out.  Mr. 
Moore  isn't  quite  himself  —  you  know  that.  And  yet  you 
yielded,  for  very  likely  he  asked  you  to  marry  him  now. 
He  will  be  himself  after  awhile.  The  doctors  say  so.  Then 
your  punishment  will  begin.  I  don't  care  anything  about 
your  being  punished.  It's  the  oddest  thing  in  the  world 
that  I  have  a  sort  of  love  for  you,  in  spite  of  everything. 
It's  the  oddest  thing  about  you,  Salome,  that,  no  matter 
what  you  do,  the  thing  in  you  that  makes  people  love  you 
is  still  in  force.  You  haven't  any  conscience,  you  haven't 
an  idea  of  some  kinds  of  honor,  and  yet  how  is  one  going 
£o  help  loving  you  ?  Look  at  me  !  Look  at  what  you've 
done  to-night !  For  all  the  whole  of  it,  I'm  drawn  to  you 
as  you  stand  there,  with  that  face  of  yours  gazing  at  me 
like  that.  What  do  you  mean  ?  What  are  you,  anyway  ? 
You're  enough  to  bewilder  the  clearest  mind  in  the  world. 
Now,  I'm  going.  You  must  make  Mr.  Scudder  come  after 
me  with  his  horse  and  carriage.  I  shall  start  to  walk.  I 
can't  go  into  that  house  again.  Salome,  good-bye." 

Salome  started  forward  and  grasped  Portia's  hands. 

"  Do  you  truly  mean  that  when  he  finds  out  how  wicked 
I  am  I  cannot  make  him  happy  ?  Do  you  mean  that?"  she 
asked,  breathlessly. 

"  Yes,  that  is  what  I  meant,"  was  the  answer;  "  but  per- 
haps I  am  wrong.  You  do  wicked  things,  and  yet  you 
yourself  don't  seem  wicked.  Oh,  I  don't  understand  any- 
thing !  Now  let  me  go." 

But  Salome  held  on  to  her  companion. 

"  No,  no  !  stay  one  moment,"  she  exclaimed.  "  I  wish 
you  would  kiss  me  before  you  go.  Of  course  you  never  can 
forgive  me ;  I  can't  expect  that  ,•  do  kiss  me !" 

This  inconsistent  and  thoroughly  womanly  request  was 
spoken  in  a  pleading  voice  that  made  Portia  angry  that  it 
affected  her.  Woman  of  the  world  as  she  was  and  well  as 


170  OUT   OF    STEP 

she  knew  herself,  she  was  so  confused  now  that  she  believed 
she  should  never  see  clearly  again. 

She  hesitated  an  instant.  She  wanted  to  take  Salome  in 
her  arms,  notwithstanding  all  that  she  had  done ;  but  she 
despised  herself  for  that  wish.  Then  she  drew  the  girl  close 
and  kissed  her  warmly. 

"  I  shall  try  to  make  him  happy,"  said  Salome,  earnestly. 

"  That  won't  do  any  good,"  was  the  response.  "  Trying 
to  do  that  never  does  any  good.  If  he  keeps  on  loving  you 
he'll  be  happy ;  but  if  he  is  one  of  the  kind  that  gets  tired 
he  won't  be  happy.  And  if  he  really  takes  it  in  that  you're 
not  honorable — but  there's  no  use  in  talking,  and  you  can't 
explain  love.  I  wonder  what  my  aunt  Florence  Darrah 
will  say  to  me  now.  It  does  seem  really  impossible  with 
the  best  intentions  for  me  to  marry." 

Portia  made  her  final  remarks  in  the  most  cynical  of 
tones.  Having  made  them  she  hastened  down  the  yard  tow- 
ards the  road,  and  the  darkness  enveloped  her. 

It  was  several  moments  before  Salome  felt  that  she  was 
outwardly  sufficiently  calm  to  return  to  the  house.  She  was 
conscious  of  a  dread  of  meeting  Mrs.  Scudder  and  the 
nurse.  But  this  dread  was  something  quite  superficial,  for 
it  passed  off  as  soon  as  she  entered. 

Mrs.  Scudder  was  glad  of  anything  to  do,  and  she  began 
eagerly  upon  the  task  of  getting  her  husband  to  harness 
and  follow  Miss  Nunally.  Mr.  Scudder  groaned  and  said 
that  he  had  done  nothing  all  day  but  harness  and  unhar- 
ness. He  said  that  it  was  diabolical  that  the  Nunally 
woman  should  insist  upon  going  before  morning.  The 
word  he  used  was  "  devilish,"  and  he  furthermore  added 
that  the  devil  must  have  entered  into  all  the  women  at 
once,  and  that  if  this  thing  continued  he  himself  should  be 
carried  to  an  asylum.  But  he  harnessed,  nevertheless,  and 
drove  along  the  road  to  overtake  Miss  Nunally.  His  wife 
shrieked  after  him  that  she  hoped  he  would  happen  to  run 
across  Nely,  who  had  gone  to  see  S'lome,  and  had  missed 
her  somehow.  Mr.  Scudder  replied  that  he'd  ruther  come 


A    MARRIAGE  171 

home  V  unharness  'n'  harness  'fore  he  went  for  Nely,  and 
with  this  piece  of  humor  he  also  was  swallowed  up  in  the 
darkness.  His  wife  stood  listening  to  the  sound  of  the 
wheels  as  they  rolled  deliberately  over  the  damp  gravel. 

This  sound  was  what  Mrs.  Scudder  called  "  so  natural " 
that  for  a  time  it  seemed  to  her  that  she  might  herself  come 
to  feel  natural  again. 

She  went  back  into  the  house  thinking  that  as  soon  as 
she  had  cleared  away  the  breakfast  in  the  morning  she 
would  go  over  to  Mrs.  Hill's.  She  would  give  herself  the 
enjoyment  of  telling  that  woman  what  had  happened  before 
any  one  else  could  possibly  find  out  and  tell. 

The  minister,  meanwhile,  had  kept  to  his  sudden  resolu- 
tion  of  going  to  Mrs.  Gerry's.  When  he  reached  the  cottage 
and  saw  the  light  burning  he  could  not  help  pausing  and 
thinking  that  he  would  turn  back.  But  he  could  not  thrust 
it  from  him  that  perhaps  it  was  his  duty.  And  there  was  a 
tonic  power  in  Mrs.  Gerry's  character  that  he  was  in  need 
of  now.  He  was  quite  aware  that  he  required  bracing,  and 
he  did  not  like  to  think  of  any  unsympathetic  person  telling 
Mrs.  Gerry  what  had  happened. 

His  knock  was  promptly  answered.  He  looked  with  some- 
thing like  furtiveness  at  the  woman  who  conducted  him  to 
the  little  sitting-room.  She  was  tpale  and  calm.  But  he 
had  seen  her  glance  anxiously  out  behind  him  towards  the 
road  as  if  she  were  expecting  some  one. 

"  Did  you  meet  Salome  anywhere  ?"  she  asked.  "  She  is 
such  a  hand  to  be  out  of  doors  that  she  takes  long  walks — 
longer  than  she  ought,  I'm  afraid." 

The  two  sat  down.  Mr.  Pope  asked  if  Salome  was  well 
now. 

"  Oh  yes ;  don't  you  think  she  looks  so  ?"  with  some  anx- 
iety. "  Have  you  seen  her  lately  ?" 

Mr.  Pope  paused  so  long  before  he  replied  that  Mrs.  Ger- 
ry's face  grew  quite  rigid.  She  sat  quietly,  however,  and 
waited.  She  had  suspected  something  as  soon  as  she  saw 
the  minister. 


1 73  OUT   OF   STEP 

"  Have  you  seen  her  lately  ?"  she  asked  again.  "  I  hope," 
in  a  low  voice,  "  that  if  you  have  anything  to  tell  about  her 
you  will  tell  it  quickly,  Mr.  Pope." 

The  man's  heart  leaped  in  involuntary  admiration  as  his 
eyes  met  Mrs.  Gerry's  glance.  He  reached  forward  and 
held  out  his  hand.  The  hand  put  in  his  was  cold  and 
steady.  He  grasped  it  tightly. 

"  It's  not  so  very  bad,"  he  said,  hurriedly,  "  only  I  think 
it  must  be  unexpected  to  you.  I  hope  it's  all  right.  I've 
just  married  her  to  that  young  man  at  Scudders'.  Mrs. 
Gerry — !"  as  his  companion  rose  quickly. 

Mrs.  Gerry  stood  an  instant  in  that  motionless  attitude 
which  sometimes  is  so  expressive.  She  had  controlled  the 
impulse  to  exclaim.  Now  she  said  : 

"  If  you'll  excuse  me,  Mr.  Pope,  I  think  I  will  go  to  her." 

The  man  had  risen  when  she  had  risen.  He  saw  that 
Mrs.  Gerry  could  not  talk.  He  did  not  know  but  that  she 
would  wish  to  be  alone,  but  he  felt  as  if  he  could  not  let 
her  go  by  herself.  He  still  kept  hold  of  her  hand,  as  if  by 
that  means  he  could  somehow  comfort  and  strengthen  her. 
And  yet  she  seemed  far  stronger  than  he. 

"  I  wish  you'd  let  me  bring  my  wife  to  you !"  he  exclaimed. 

"  Oh,  no,  thank  you,"  was  the  answer.  Mrs.  Gerry  with- 
drew her  hand.  "  I  think  I'll  go  to  my  daughter,"  she 
said. 

She  looked  round  in  a  blind  way  for  her  shawl.  She 
found  it,  and  wrapped  it  methodically  about  her,  pinning  it 
in  two  places  with  her  chain  shawl-pin.  She  said  again  that 
she  hoped  Mr.  Pope  would  excuse  her.  Would  he  please 
go  ?  She  was  going  to  blow  out  the  light. 

Mr.  Pope  obeyed  her ;  but  he  waited  just  outside  the 
door,  and  begged  her  to  let  him  go  with  her.  He  ventured 
to  say  that  perhaps  things  were  not  so  bad  as  she  feared. 
Then  he  was  afraid  that  he  had  not  said  the  right  thing. 
He  was  hurrying  on  beside  her. 

"  They  must  be  bad,"  she  said.  She  felt  that  she  might 
speak  freely  to  her  minister  ;  and  to  speak  now  might  re- 


A    MARRIAGE  173 

lieve  her  so  that  she  could  keep  later  that  necessary  grip. 
But  she  spoke  with  apparent  calmness. 

"  But  surely — surely,"  began  Mr.  Pope.  Then  he  paused. 
It  was  humiliating  not  to  be  able  to  hit  upon  anything  ap- 
propriate to  say,  particularly  when  it  was  part  of  his  busi- 
ness to  be  able  to  say  appropriate  things  in  time  of  trouble. 

Mrs.  Gerry  walked  so  fast  that  it  was  difficult  to  keep  be- 
side her. 

"  Everybody  will  judge  her  so  harshly,"  said  the  mother. 
"  Oh,"  with  a  sudden  break  in  her  voice,  "  I  wish  we  were 
away  —  away,  no  matter  where.  And  Salome  is  wrong.  I 
can't  justify  what  she  does.  That  is  the  worst  of  it  all ;  even 
I  can't  justify  it." 

Now  that  she  had  begun  to  speak,  Mrs.  Gerry  felt  the  re- 
lief of  speech.  There  is  nothing  in  the  world  more  exhaust- 
ing than  the  strain  of  that  continuous  self-control  that  never 
loses  its  hold,  and  nothing  more  narrowing.  That  the 
evil  in  one's  nature  should  be  held  unceasingly  in  check — 
that  is  self-evident.  But  that  delusion  under  which  some 
natures  live  that  spontaneity  in  itself  is  evil  takes  half  the 
loveliness  from  life ;  its  iron  bands  cramp  everything ;  that 
glowing  impulse  which  springs  in  beauty  from  the  heart — 
catch  it,  analyze  it,  catalogue  it,  take  forever  from  it  its  ex- 
quisite aroma.  Continue  doing  this  and  in  time  you  will 
be  in  that  correct  state  when  you  will  have  no  glowing  im- 
pulses ;  then  life  will  be  as  simple  as  it  will  be  uninterest- 
ing. But  you  will  always  be  quite  able  to  calculate  upon  a 
machine.  Still  the  action  of  machinery  is  not  life;  and  life 
and  individuality  surely  were  given  that  they  might  still  con- 
tinue life  and  individuality. 

Mr.  Pope  had  drawn  Mrs.  Gerry's  hand  through  his  arm  ; 
he  had  adjusted  his  step  to  hers,  and  without  her  realizing 
that  he  did  so,  he  was  helping  her  to  get  over  the  ground 
much  faster  than  she  could  have  gone  alone. 

"  I  wish  I  knew  what  was  best,  what  was  truly  best,"  Mrs. 
Gerry  said.  "  Mr.  Pope,  sometimes  it  comes  over  me  with 
awful  force  that  perhaps  I  did  not  bring  her  up  right." 


174  OUT  OF   STEP 

She  breathed  heavily,  but  she  would  not  slacken  her  pace. 

"You  did  as  well  as  you  could,"  said  the  minister,  gently. 

"  Yes,  yes ;  but  I  may  have  been  wrong.  Only  to  think 
that  I  may  have  been  wrong !  She  must  have  known  bet- 
ter than  to  marry  Mr.  Moore  now.  He  is  not  fit  to  judge 
for  himself.  He  was  engaged  to  Miss  Nunally.  He  has 
broken  his  engagement,  and  I'm  sure  that  she  is  to  blame. 
Under  the  circumstances  she  must  be  to  blame.  Mr.  Pope, 
what  is  it  that  makes  her  seem  good  even  while  she  does 
bad  things  ?  Is  it  only  because  I  am  her  mother  ?" 

"  I  suppose  she  seems  good  because  she  is  so,"  was  the 
rather  unorthodox  reply  of  the  minister ;  and  he  was  so  lost 
to  his  creed  as  to  go  on  and  say : 

"We  must  judge  people  by  their  tendencies  rather  than 
by  their  actions." 

Mrs.  Gerry  looked  with  a  piteous  eagerness  towards  her 
companion.  She  could  not  help  placing  a  good  deal  of 
weight  upon  what  a  minister  said.  A  minister  was  called  of 
God ;  it  was  proper  and  natural  that  he  should  know  about 
right  and  wrong. 

"  But,"  she  said,  hesitatingly,  "  our  actions  spring  from 
our  tendencies,  don't  they?" 

Mr.  Pope  did  not  reply  immediately.  He  was  asking  him- 
self several  questions,  and  he  could  not  answer  them. 

Finally  he  said  he  believed  that  some  people  were  a  great 
deal  better  than  their  deeds,  just  as  he  was  sure  that  some 
of  us  were  a  great  deal  worse  than  our  deeds. 

Having  spoken  thus  much  the  two  walked  on  in  silence 
along  the  lonesome  road.  It  seemed  to  Mrs.  Gerry  that 
breath  and  strength  could  hardly  hold  out  through  the  dis- 
tance. And  now,  though  her  first  impulse  was  always  to 
go  to  her  daughter,  she  began  to  ask  herself  why  she  should 
go  now.  What  could  she  do  ?  For  the  first  time  in  their 
lives  there  came  to  her  the  chill  sense  that  Salome,  perhaps, 
was  removed  from  her.  Well,  that,  too,  she  must  bear.  She 
had  borne  a  good  many  things.  \That  was  mostly  what  life 
meant  to  her— to  bear  things. 


A    MARRIAGE  175 

When  the  two  reached  the  door  of  the  Scudder  house  the 
minister  was  strongly  tempted  to  run  away ;  and  being  thus 
tempted,  he  was  quite  sure  that  it  was  his  duty  to  remain. 

But  Mrs.  Gerry  decided  that  matter  for  him  by  saying,  in 
a  hesitating  manner,  that  she  supposed  it  was  of  no  use  to 
try  to  do  anything  about  it  now ;  and  it  was  of  no  use  any- 
way, for  Salome  always  did  what  she  pleased,  and  you 
couldn't  be  sure  of  anything  about  her. 

The  minister  was  turning  away  when  his  companion  said, 
"  Mr.  Pope,  I  wish  you  would  pray  for  us — pray  for  Salome." 

Mrs.  Gerry  paused  before  she  added,  "  I  wish  you  would 
pray  that  Salome  may — may  do  right." 

"  I  will ;  I  will,"  was  the  answer  in  an  unsteady  voice. 
But  Mrs.  Gerry's  voice  had  not  faltered.  And  now  as  she 
knocked  on  the  door  the  lines  of  her  face  were  firm. 

The  face  that  immediately  confronted  her  was,  however, 
what  might  be  called  broken  up  in  its  lines.  Mrs.  Scudder 
was  in  the  highest  state  of  fluster.  She  seized  Mrs.  Gerry's 
shawl  and  pulled  her  in. 

She  confided  to  Mrs.  Gerry  her  fear  "  that  she  shouldn't 
never  know  nothin'  agin,"  and  also  expressed  a  doubt  as  to 
whether  she  ever  had  known  anything. 

These  words,  coming  from  a  large  woman,  dressed  in  her 
best  black  gown,  with  a  wide  cotton-lace  collar  painfully  ar- 
ranged about  her  neck,  were  very  impressive. 

But  Mrs.  Gerry  hardly  heard  them  and  made  no  attempt 
to  reply.  What  she  said,  in  the  most  matter-of-fact  way, 
was  that  she  thought,  under  the  circumstances,  that  Mr. 
Moore  might  better  come  over  to  her  house ;  she  was  quite 
sure  that  she  and  Salome  could  take  care  of  him.  She  add- 
ed that  he  would  soon  be  well  now,  and  could  then  make 
what  arrangements  he  pleased  for  himself  and  Salome. 

These  words  were  spoken  so  calmly  that  Mrs.  Scudder 
almost  believed  that  she  should  come  out  of  her  fluster  be- 
fore they  knew  about  it.  Still,  there  was  a  little  resentment 
in  her  tone  as  she  remarked  that  it  was  lucky  that  Mis' 
Gerry  could  always  be  so  ca'm.  It  must  be  so  convenient 
to  be  one  of  the  ca'm  kind. 


XI 

SOME  MONTHS   LATER 

Two  women  met  at  the  door  of  a  dry-goods  store  on 
Summer  Street,  in  Boston.  They  bowed  and  smiled  at 
each  other  and  said,  "Good-morning";  then  they  passed 
on.  But  the  elder  of  the  two,  who  was  leaving  the  building, 
paused  when  she  reached  her  carriage.  She  had  opened 
the  door  of  that  vehicle,  but  she  shut  it  again.  She  hesi- 
tated still  further.  Then  she  glanced  up  at  the  coachman 
and  said : 

"You  may  wait  a  few  moments  longer." 

She  returned  to  the  shop  and  walked  slowly  down  the 
aisle,  looking  about  her.  She  was  smiling  very  slightly  to 
herself,  as  if  what  she  was  about  to  do  was  but  the  follow- 
ing out  of  a  whim. 

Presently  she  saw  the  figure  she  was  in  search  of,  and 
she  hastened  towards  it. 

"  I  have  come  back  that  I  might  ask  a  favor  of  you,  Mrs. 
Moore,"  she  said. 

"  Oh,"  was  the  reply,  with  a  quick  smile,  "  I  shall  so  like 
to  grant  you  a  favor." 

"But  wait  until  you  have  heard  what  it  is.  Come  and 
sit  here  a  minute  with  me." 

The  last  speaker  turned  towards  a  couch  near  the  en- 
trance to  the  elevator,  and  the  two  women  sat  down  upon  it. 

"You  know  I've  only  met  you  twice,"  she  continued, 
"  but  somehow  I  can't  seem  to  forget  you.  Perhaps  you've 
noticed  that  it  is  not  always  the  people  you've  met  a  great 
many  times  that  you  think  of  most  ?" 

As  this  remark  was  made  with  a  questioning  inflection, 


SOME   MONTHS    LATER 


I77 


the  other  answered  with  some  emphasis  that  she  had  some- 
times thought  that  the  oftener  you  met  people  the  less  you 
thought  about  them. 

The  other  woman  laughed  as  she  said,-  "  I  didn't  mean 
anything  quite  so  bad  as  that ;  still — " 

She  bent  forward  slightly  and  put  her  gloved  hand  in  the 
lightest  manner  upon  the  gloved  hand  of  her  companion. 

"  Has  any  one  told  you  that  I  paint  a  little,  Mrs.  Moore?" 

Salome's  reply  was  somewhat  eager. 

"  I  knew  that  when  I  first  heard  your  name,"  she  said, 
quickly.  "  And  I  have  seen  some  of  your  pictures.  They 
go  right  to  my  heart.  Oh,  Mrs.  Bradford,  you  love  the 
country  as  I  do  !— the  country  with  the  hot  sunshine  on  it. 
I  wish  you  would  go  to  Florida  and  paint  just  a  stretch  of 
beach  and  the  water  as  they  look  at  noon  when  there  is  not 
a  cloud  in  the  sky.  You  would  know  how  to  paint  a  scene 
like  that.  There  would  not  only  be  color,  there  would  be 
heat  and  light,  there  would  be  the  South  in  it." 

Having  spoken  thus  with  more  enthusiasm  than  is  cus- 
tomary in  what  is  called  "society,"  Salome  paused  and 
added  more  moderately  that  her  husband  always  insisted 
that  it  was  a  great  mistake  to  call  her  a  Yankee  girl. 

"  I  think  he  secretly  believes  that  I  am  really  a  creature 
born  in  the  tropics,  and  that  for  some  reason  I  have  chosen 
to  make  believe  that  I  am  a  New  England  woman.  But, 
Mrs.  Bradford,  I  do  wish  you  would  go  to  Florida  and  paint 
such  a  picture ;  and  I  would  buy  it ;  and  then  I  should  al- 
ways have  a  bit  of  the  South  with  me." 

Here  Salome  felt  that  she  ought  to  be  confused  because 
she  had  spoken  so  freely  to  Mrs.  Bradford,  whom  she  ad- 
mired greatly  and  whom  she  knew  so  very  slightly. 

But  there  was  something  in  her  companion's  smile  and 
in  her  eyes  that  prevented  any  embarrassment,  that  even 
seemed  to  encourage  Salome. 

"  It's  another  kind  of  a  picture  that  I  want  to  paint  now," 
responded  Mrs.  Bradford,  "  and  I  am  almost  afraid  I'm 
taking  a  liberty  in  asking  for  the  opportunity." 


178  OUT   OF   STEP 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  Salome,  not  in  the  least  suspecting,  and 
very  curious. 

"  Well,  then,  I  want  to  paint  your  portrait.  I  wanted  to 
paint  it  the  very  instant  I  looked  at  you.  Only  I  can't  do 
it  as  I  ought.  I'm  sure  I  can't.  Mrs.  Moore,  do  let  me 
try." 

It  was  Mrs.  Bradford  who  now  spoke  with  more  earnest- 
ness than  was  usual  in  what  is  called  "  society."  But  she 
was  subject  to  lapses  into  too  much  earnestness  whenever 
she  touched  upon  the  subject  of  her  art. 

Salome  gazed  at  her  companion  in  astonishment. 

"  To  paint  my  portrait  ?"  she  asked,  with  a  dwelling  on 
the  possessive  pronoun. 

"  Yes,  even  yours.  Is  that  so  surprising  ?  I  should  be 
willing  to  assert  that  Mr.  Moore  would  not  think  it  surpris- 
ing. And  when  it  is  done  you  may  make  him  a  present  of 
it — that  is,  if  I  succeed,  partially.  It  would  be  out  of  the 
question  to  expect  to  succeed  wholly  with  a  face  like  yours. 
I  wish  you  would  go  home  with  me  now.  My  carriage  is 
here.  Please  come ;  and  don't  say  I'm  presuming.  I  am 
in  the  mood  to  begin  a  sketch  of  you.  And  a  woman  must 
take  advantage  of  moods,  you  know.  I  know  just  how  I 
shall  take  you.  It  shall  be  the  front  face,  with  your  eyes 
looking  directly  into  mine.  Please  come." 

Mrs.  Bradford  had  risen.  She  held  out  her  hand  and 
Salome  rose  also.  She  was  feeling  very  glad  to  be  with  this 
woman.  She  had  not  supposed  that  she  should  ever  know 
Mrs.  Bradford.  She  was  not  at  all  in  Mrs.  Bradford's  "  set," 
and  had  only  happened  to  meet  her  at  the  house  of  a  friend. 

She  could  not  be  aware  that  Mrs.  Bradford  cared  not  the 
least  in  the  world  about  "  sets." 

The  two  went  to  the  carriage  and  were  driven  away. 
They  hardly  spoke  during  the  drive,  yet  Salome  was  not 
conscious  of  any  embarrassment  from  the  silence,  even 
though  in  that  silence  she  was  looked  at  a  good  deal.  At 
last  her  companion  withdrew  her  eyes  as  she  said  : 

"  You  must  pardon  me.     I  know  I  am  staring  in  a  dread- 


SOME    MONTHS    LATER  179 

ful  way,  but  I'm  getting  points  for  my  picture.  You  may 
pretend  that  I  am  going  to  make  you  famous.  Imagine  an 
art  reception  and  people  crowding  up  to  a  certain  canvas 
and  asking  each  other,  'Who  is  she  ?'  and  answering,  'Why, 
don't  you  know  ?  That's  Mrs.  Randolph  Moore.'  " 

Salome  laughed  in  that  way  that  shows  that  a  laugh  is 
very  ready  to  come. 

"  No ;  that  is  not  what  they  will  ask,"  she  responded. 
"  They  will  inquire  who  is  the  painter." 

"  And  if  they  do  they  will  decide  that  the  artist  was  not 
worthy  of  her  subject.  But  I'm  going  to  try.  I've  only 
painted  a  few  faces  ;  yes,  I'm  going  to  try." 

Salome  was  almost  afraid  that  she  would  show  too  child- 
ish an  interest. 

"And  will  you  have  it  labelled  'Portrait  of  a  Lady'?" 
she  asked. 

Mrs.  Bradford  turned  to  Salome  with  that  direct  and  yet 
gentle  way  she  had.  And  she  put  a  question  in  return : 

"  Do  you  want  to  know  one  reason  why  I  am  so  eager  to 
paint  you  ?" 

"  Yes ;  please  tell  me." 

The  other  did  not  smile.  A  look  of  deep  seriousness  was 
in  her  eyes,  as  she  made  answer  : 

"  It  is  because  you  are  happy.  I  have  always  wished  to 
paint  the  face  of  a  happy  woman." 

Salome's  hands  beneath  her  mantle  clasped  themselves 
together.  She  did  not  flush  now  any  more  than  she  had 
ever  done  ;  but  the  clearness  of  her  face  was  illumined  by 
that  curious  white  light  which  comes  to  some  faces,  and 
which  means  so  much  more  than  color. 

"  Are  happy  women  so  very  rare  ?"  she  asked. 

"  Yes,"  was  the  brief  reply. 

"  Oh,"  exclaimed  Salome,  "  I  can't  believe  that." 

"  Can't  you  ?  That  shows  that  my  impression  of  you  is 
correct.  But  don't  you  think  we  are  talking  very  uncon- 
ventionally ?" 

"Very.     But  that's  the  way  I  like  to  talk." 


180  OUT  OF   STEP 

Salome  was  somewhat  confused  with  the  delight  of  being 
so  suddenly  and  informally  in  the  presence  of  this  woman 
whom  she  had  admired  afar  off  on  those  two  brief  occasions 
when  she  had  been  with  her.  And  she  wondered  that  she 
felt  so  much  at  home. 

"  And  it's  the  way  I  like  to  talk,  too,"  said  Mrs.  Brad- 
ford. "  That's  the  reason  I'm  not  a  good  society  woman." 

"  But  you  are — you  are.  You  are  my  ideal  society  wom- 
an," exclaimed  Salome. 

"  Your  praise  is  very  sweet,"  said  Mrs.  Bradford,  letting 
her  delighted  eyes  rest  upon  her  companion,  "  but  you  are 
wrong,  nevertheless.  There  are  a  hundred  people  here  in 
Boston  who  would  tell  you  so.  I  have  never  learned  what 
to  say ;  but  I  sometimes  know  what  not  to  say." 

"My husband  thinks — "here  Salome  paused, shyly.  She 
had  just  recalled  that  an  acquaintance  had  warned  her  that 
very  morning  that  she  really  must  stop  informing  people  as 
to  what  her  husband  said  or  thought ;  that  she  must  re- 
member that  the  world  at  large  was  not  at  all  interested  to 
know  what  were  Randolph  Moore's  opinions  about  any- 
thing. Randolph  Moore's  wife  had  acknowledged  that  this 
must  be  true  ;  but  in  the  bottom  of  her  heart  she  could 
not  help  pitying  those  poor  people  who  had  no  chance 
of  knowing  what  Moore's  conclusions  were  upon  different 
topics. 

"  What  is  it  that  your  husband  thinks  ?"  inquired  Mrs. 
Bradford  with  such  an  appearance  of  interest  that  Salome 
forgot  how  she  had  been  warned,  and  replied  enthusiasti- 
cally : 

"  He  believes  that  it  is  of  a  great  deal  more  importance 
to  know  what  not  to  say." 

"  In  that  case  I  need  not  be  discouraged,"  was  the  re- 
sponse. 

"  Oh,  Mrs.  Bradford,  don't  laugh  at  me !  I  know  it  is 
silly  to  quote  Mr.  Moore  so  much." 

"  No  ;  it's  delightful." 

"  It's  delightful  to  me,"  was  the  charmingly  candid  re^ 


SOME   MONTHS    LATER  l8l 

sponse,  and  Salome  hardly  knew  why  her  companion  laughed 
with  such  amusement. 

After  that  there  was  another  silence  which  was  not  broken 
until  the  carriage  stopped  before  a  house  in  that  old  part 
of  the  city  where  there  is  something  besides  "  style  " ;  where, 
in  short,  there  is  that  true  flavor  of  Boston  which  is  at  once 
so  penetrating  and  so  charming. 

To  Salome,  who  was  staying  at  a  new  and  what  might 
almost  be  called  a  shining  hotel  in  new  Boston,  this  local- 
ity had  a  look  of  something  very  nearly  like  shabbiness. 
Still  she  could  not  tell  why  she  liked  it  so  well.  She  sup- 
posed, however,  that  it  was  because  it  was  where  Mrs.  Brad- 
ford lived.  Mrs.  Bradford  was  certainly  one  of  the  real  kind 
— the  real  Boston  kind. 

Salome  had  not  yet  discovered  that  this  lady  had  only 
belonged  to  the  real  kind  some  half  a  dozen  years ;  and 
that  she  was  in  truth  even  now  no  more  than  a  country 
girl  like  Salome — no  more,  only,  perhaps,  a  great  deal  dif- 
ferent. 

When  the  door  was  opened  to  them  the  elder  woman,  re- 
marking that  they  would  go  directly  to  the  studio,  led  the 
way  to  the  rear  of  the  house  to  what  is  technically  called  an 
"  extension."  Here  was  a  small  room  with  a  northern  as- 
pect. 

Having  closed  the  door,  Mrs.  Bradford  threw  off  her  wrap 
and  bonnet  and  began  removing  her  gloves  with  some  ap- 
pearance of  eagerness.  She  walked  about  as  she  did  so. 

"  I'm  so  glad  I  met  you,"  she  said,  again.  "  I  was  think- 
ing of  trying  to  find  out  your  address.  It  is  possible  that  I 
should  have  been  so  bold  as  to  call  on  you.  That  would 
have  been  proper,  of  course,  but — " 

"  I  am  not  in  your  set,"  said  Salome,  as  her  hostess 
paused.  "  I  don't  know  a  single  human  being  in  this  part 
of  Boston.  I  should  not  have  thought  that  I  could  ever  en- 
ter a  house  like  this,  where — where — " 

Here  she  also  paused  before  the  vastness  of  her  subject. 
Her  eyes  shone.  She  was  openly  gazing  about  her  at  the 


1 82  OUT  OF   STEP 

pictures  set  against  the  wall ;  at  the  canvas  on  the  easel ; 
at  the  casts  and  busts  and  draperies.  It  was  not  an  elegant 
studio  like  the  scene  of  the  pastime  of  a  woman  to  whom  to 
be  here  was  merely  a  pastime.  It  was  a  real  workshop,  as 
Salome  felt.  She  had  not  expected  this.  She  had  supposed 
she  would  be  brought  to  a  place  that  was  fitted  up  beauti- 
fully, and  where  the  artist  amused  herself.  It  is  true  that 
there  was  nothing  here  that  swore  at  anything  else,  that 
there  was  a  kind  of  unconscious  harmony ;  but  it  was  plain- 
ly merely  a  workshop,  and  not  the  lounging-place  of  a  wom- 
an who  was  but  indulging  a  fad. 

"  Where,"  said  Mrs.  Bradford,  taking  up  her  guest's  re- 
mark, "  the  very  cobwebs  are  cobwebs  of  old  Boston  fami- 
lies, and  are  like  the  same  thing  on  wine  bottles  brought  up 
from  the  properest  wine  cellar." 

She  had  thrown  off  her  gloves  and  her  wrap,  and  was  tak- 
ing the  half-finished  picture  from  the  easel  that  she  might 
put  a  plain  canvas  there. 

"  Yes,"  said  Salome,  "  I  think  that  must  be  exactly  what 
I  was  going  to  say,  only  my  reverence,  you  know,  prevented 
me." 

"  Naturally.  Now  please  take  off  your  hat.  Run  your 
fingers  through  your  hair  on  your  forehead ;  or  permit  me 
to  do  it.  There.  Ah,  truly  I'm  in  luck !  I  suppose  in  the 
days  when  gods  and  goddesses  came  down  occasionally  from 
Olympus,  there  were  to  be  seen  faces  on  this  earth  like 
yours.  But  not  since  then.  No,  not  since  then,  surely." 

The  speaker  stepped  back  a  few  paces  gazing  with  ear- 
nestness at  the  face  before  her.  She  returned  to  her  easel. 
The  fresh  canvas  was  in  place.  She  took  a  clean  palette 
on  her  thumb  and  a  brush  in  her  hand,  and  stepped  back 
again,  looking  at  her  sitter  at  a  different  angle.  There  was 
a  flush  on  Mrs.  Bradford's  cheeks  and  a  steady  glow  in  her 
eyes.  Salome,  contemplating  her,  could  not  understand  it 
in  the  least.  Of  course  a  woman  like  that  could  do  good 
work.  But  as  for  her,  Randolph  Moore's  wife — well,  she 
could  not  imagine  anything  unconnected  with  Randolph 


SOME    MONTHS   LATER  183 

Moore  that  could  excite  so  deep  an  interest  in  her  heart. 
She  told  herself,  however,  that  people  were  different.  But 
to  her  happy  consciousness  those  words  did  not  mean  any- 
thing. 

It  was  a  delightful  thing  to  sit  in  this  room  and  have  a 
woman  like  Mrs.  Keats  Bradford  want  to  paint  you,  and  she 
would  keep  the  whole  thing  a  secret  from  Randolph,  and 
when  the  picture  was  done  she  would  make  him  a  gift  of  it. 
She  could  see  his  face  now  as  he  first  looked  at  the  portrait; 
she  would  tell  him  why  it  was  that  this  artist  had  wished  to 
paint  it ;  it  was  because  she  was  so  happy ;  and  then  per- 
haps he  would  insist  upon  her  telling  him  why  she  was 
happy. 

These  thoughts,  which  seemed  even  more  feelings  than 
thoughts,  came  in  an  agreeable  confusion,  hurrying  after 
each  other  as  Salome  remained  quietly  where  Mrs.  Brad- 
ford had  placed  her.  Then  she  thought  that  perhaps  she 
would,  after  all,  tell  Randolph  and  ask  her  hostess  if  she 
might  bring  him  there  some  day.  Of  course  Mrs.  Bradford, 
or  any  one,  would  like  to  meet  Mr.  Moore.  That  is,  they 
would  certainly  like  to  meet  him  again  after  having  seen 
him  once. 

Mrs.  Bradford  continued  for  a  few  minutes  to  walk  around 
in  front  of  her  sitter  and  to  look  at  her  from  different  points. 
At  last  she  said  : 

"  I  was  right  at  first.  One  must  be  able  to  gaze  straight 
in  the  eyes  of  this  portrait.  There  is  no  other  way.  Oh,  I 
shall  not  need  to  name  it — not  if  I  can  put  in  this  look. 
Do  pardon  me,  Mrs.  Moore,  I'm  not  really  daft,  though  I 
seem  so.  Now  let  me  take  a  palette  with  some  colors  on  it. 
It's  not  so  much  the  color  now  as  the  drawing.  Do  you 
mind  looking  directly  at  me?  Yes,  like  that.  It  is  not 
necessary  for  me  to  ask  you  to  put  on  a  pleasant  expression. 
Let  us  talk.  Have  you  been  in  town  long  ?  Has  any  one 
asked  you  how  you  like  Boston  ?" 

"  I've  been  in  town  about  three  months.  Yes,  every  one 
has  asked  me  how  I  like  Boston." 


I 84  OUT    OF    STEP 

"And  what  do  you  tell  them  ?" 

Mrs.  Bradford  was  making  rapid  strokes,  and  then  draw- 
ing back  to  look  at  them  and  at  the  woman  in  the  chair  in 
front  of  her. 

"  I  tell  them  that  if  Boston  were  only  in  the  South  some- 
where, Boston  would  be  Paradise." 

"Yes,"  responded  Mrs.  Bradford,  absently.  She  was 
making  some  touches  and  was  absorbed  in  considering 
their  effect.  In  a  moment  she  appeared  to  come  back  to 
the  realization  of  something  or  somebody  being  present 
with  her. 

"You  seem  to  love  the  South,  Mrs.  Moore,"  she  said. 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  love  it." 

"  Perhaps  it  was  there  that  you  first  met  Mr.  Moore  ?" 

The  speaker  looked  at  her  companion  and  smiled  en- 
couragingly. This  smile  somehow  went  straight  to  Salome's 
heart. 

"  Yes ;  I  did  meet  him  there,"  she  answered. 

"  I  understand,"  was  the  response. 

"  Pardon  me,  Mrs.  Bradford,  but  I  don't  think  you  do 
understand.  If  I  had  never  seen  Mr.  Moore  I  should  love 
the  South  just  as  well.  But  you  make  me  talk  about 
myself.  I  don't  think  one  ought  to  talk  about  one's  self,  do 
you  ?" 

"That  depends." 

Another  silence,  which  was  broken  by  an  exclamation 
from  the  artist: 

"  If  I  can  only  get  your  eyes  !" 

"  They're  hazel,"  explanatorily  responded  Salome. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  mean  the  color — I  mean  the  expression." 

Silence  again.  Salome  found  that  she  was  gazing  direct- 
ly at  her  companion,  whether  they  talked  together  or  not. 
She  was  becoming  more  and  more  interested.  She  smiled 
to  herself  as  she  thought  of  bringing  her  husband  to  see 
this  picture.  And  Mrs.  Bradford  would  know  directly  she 
saw  him  that  it  was  perfectly  reasonable  for  her,  Salome, 
to  be  so  happy. 


SOME   MONTHS    LATER  185 

In  a  few  moments  the  artist  sat  down  in  a  chair  in  front 
of  the  easel.  She  still  kept  her  palette  on  her  thumb,  and 
occasionally  she  touched  her  brush  to  some  of  the  pigments 
with  an  absorbed  air.  She  seemed  not  to  be  really  present; 
and  yet  she  still  appeared  keenly  interested  in  the  work 
she  had  begun. 

She  noticed  that  it  was  when  Mrs.  Moore  was  quiet  and 
her  face  in  repose  that  it  wore  most  strongly  the  expression 
she  wished  to  depict.  It  was  then  that  the  eyes  had  that 
look  of  intense  happiness  that  so  strangely  strikes  the  be- 
holder with  a  kind  of  terror.  Is  it  that  we  instantly  say  to 
ourselves  that  no  human  being  has  a  right  to  be  so  happy 
as  that  ?  That  to  be  thus  happy  is  but  to  make  one's  self  a 
mark  for  the  gods  to  aim  at  ? 

It  is  true,  however,  that  few  of  us  poor  mortals  are 
capable  of  this  kind  of  rapture  when  to  live  is  au  ecstasy; 
when  to  know  that  for  us  there  are  eyes  whose  glance  gives 
us  what  we  ask  is  to  know  everything  that  we  long  to 
know.  This  is  the  kind  of  happiness  that  to  the  observer 
suggests  the  deepest  pathos— if  he  understands  it.  If  he 
does  not  understand  it  he  calls  it  abnormal,  and  passes  on 
to  that  lower  grade  of  enjoyment  which  he  does  understand, 
and  which  is  therefore  strictly  normal,  and  to  be  tolerated. 

But  Mrs.  Bradford  understood  it.  And  perhaps  that  is 
why  she  should  feel  the  tears  so  near  her  eyes  when  she 
met  her  companion's  glance. 

All  at  once  she  laid  down  her  tools. 

"  I  can't  paint  any  more  to-day,"  she  said,  with  some- 
thing like  abruptness.  "  But  I  have  made  a  beginning.  If 
you  will  come  to-morrow  at  ten  in  the  morning  —  Or  is  it 
too  much  to  ask  ?  Do  I  seem  presumptuous  ?"  She  held 
out  her  hand. 

Salome  put  her  own  hand  in  that  extended  to  her. 

"  May  I  look  at  it  ?"  with  a  recurrence  of  shyness.  She 
had  been  thinking  that  she  had  been  unwarrantably  familiar 
with  this  lady,  who  lived  in  what  she  now  called  to  herself 
the  most  cobwebby  part  of  Boston. 


l86  OUT   OF   STEP 

"Yes,  you  may  see  it." 

Salome  walked  with  some  hesitation  in  front  of  the 
easel. 

"  Oh !"  she  said,  softly.  She  turned  a  wondering  gaze  at 
her  companion. 

"  Do  I  look  like  that?"  she  exclaimed.  "  But  that  is  im- 
possible. That  is  —  why  —  Mrs.  Bradford,  that  is  going  to 
be  beautiful !  And  I  am  very  plain.  I  have  always  been 
plain." 

"  Have  you  ?"  with  smiling  incredulity. 

"  Truly  I  have  always  thought  so.  And  how  have  you 
done  so  much  in  this  hour  ?  It  seems  like  a  miracle." 

"  I  thought  I  could  catch  the  likeness  the  moment  I  saw 
you  on  Summer  Street  this  morning,  and  I  have  been  at 
work  " — she  took  her  watch  from  her  belt — "  I  have  been 
at  work  almost  two  hours.  You  have  inspired  me,  Mrs. 
Moore.  Do  you  like  it  ?" 

She  stood  with  her  guest  and  contemplated  the  canvas, 
her  own  face  glowing  with  that  exhilaration  which  comes 
from  working  when  the  conditions  are  right. 

"  You  know  I  haven't  a  good  feature  in  my  face,"  mur- 
mured Salome,  looking  at  the  picture. 

"  Haven't  you  ?"  Mrs.  Bradford  said,  as  before  she  had 
said,  "  Have  you  ?" 

"  No ;  that  is,  my  mirror  tells  me  so." 

"  Very  well ;  we  wont  quarrel  with  your  mirror  —  not  to- 
day ;  though  I  might  speak  of  your  eyes  and  mouth.  Still, 
if  a  face  is  not  actually  deformed,  features  count  for  very 
little." 

"You,  an  artist,  say  that?" 

"Yes,  certainly,  and  I  love  form  as  well  as  any  one. 
Come,  let  us  have  some  lunch." 

Mrs.  Bradford  led  the  way  back  into  the  house.  They 
sat  down  in  the  dining-room  before  a  lunch  which  Salome 
afterward  described  to  her  husband  as  precisely  the  lunch 
that  was  appropriate  to  be  served  in  Mrs.  Bradford's  house. 
This  was  rather  an  indefinite  description,  but  it  seemed  to 


SOME   MONTHS    LATER  187 

be  all  that  Salome  was  able  to  give.  The  two  were  alone. 
Once  when  Salome,  hearing  footsteps  in  the  hall,  glanced 
expectantly  at  the  door,  her  hostess  said  : 

"  Mr.  Bradford  is  out  of  town,  or  you  would  meet  him. 
To-night  I  shall  present  to  him  my  sketch  of  you.  I  shall 
have  an  unprejudiced  criticism,  in  one  sense.  For  he  has 
never  seen  you.  I  am  looking  forward  to  his  thinking  it  is 
an  ideal  head." 

"  I  have  been  wishing  I  might  meet  him,"  said  Salome. 
"And  yet  I'm  afraid.  Does  he  know — " 

Here  she  paused  so  long  that  her  companion  said  in  a 
quiet  tone  that  was  yet  full  of  significance  : 

"  Yes,  he  knows." 

Salome  involuntarily  sank  back  a  little  more  in  her  chair 
with  a  feeling  of  relief  and  content,  believing  now  that  it 
might  be  possible  that  Mr.  Bradford  was  worthy  of  Mrs. 
Bradford.  She  thought  that  she  recalled  hearing  Moore 
say  that  he  had  met  Bradford,  and  that  Moore  had  spoken 
well  of  him.  She  was  not  quite  sure  of  this,  however.  But 
a  man  whom  this  woman  loved  — while  he  could  not  be  as 
worthy  of  love  in  every  way  as  Randolph  Moore,  he  might 
still  be  an  extremely  good  sort  of  man. 

When  Salome  at  last  walked  down  the  steps  of  the  Brad- 
ford house  she  had  promised  to  come  again  the  next  morn- 
ing, and  she  had  obtained  permission  to  bring  her  husband 
"  just  for  a  moment." 

She  went  rapidly  across  the  common,  her  head  slightly 
thrown  back,  her  eyes  introverted,  not  really  seeing  any- 
thing save  in  a  way  that  served  to  keep  her  from  coming  in 
contact  with  people  or  things.  And  yet  her  senses  were 
ready  to  be  alert  at  the  slightest  summons. 

She  moved  with  a  sort  of  pliant  grace  that  seemed  to 
have  something  exultant  in  it.  Sometimes  men  and  women 
who  were  not  too  much  absorbed  in  themselves  turned  to 
look  at  her.  And  these  men  and  women  always  smiled 
first,  and  then  sighed. 

A  large,  elderly  woman,  with  gray  curls  each  side  of  her 


1 88  OUT   OF   STEP 

face,  dressed  with  perfect  appropriateness,  and  preceded 
at  the  distance  of  two  yards  by  a  small,  long-haired  terrier, 
saw  Salome  coming  along  the  path  near  the  State  House. 
She  looked  full  at  the  other  as  they  met ;  she  paused  as  one 
pauses  who  is  not  quite  decided  whether  to  pause  or  not. 
But  when  she  spoke  there  was  no  hesitancy  in  her  speech. 

"You'll  forgive  me,  I'm  sure,"  she  said,  "because  old 
people  have  whims.  I  want  to  shake  hands  with  you. 
I've  just  been  talking  with  a  man  who  asserted  that  there 
was  no  real  happiness  in  this  world.  My  dear,  you'll  shake 
hands  with  me,  won't  you  ?" 

Salome  smiled  as  she  held  out  her  hand.  She  was  a  lit- 
tle shy,  too,  and  she  was  not  sure  that  she  quite  liked  it 
that  her  very  appearance  advertised  to  strangers  that  she 
was  not — well,  that  she  was  not  wretched. 

"  Thank  you,"  said  the  old  lady.  "  I  only  wish  that  the 
man  with  whom  I  have  been  talking  was  with  me.  But  it 
does  not  matter;  he  may  continue  living  in  his  benighted 
condition.  Good-bye.  I'm  glad  I  met  you.  I  call  it  good 
luck." 

Each  went  her  way,  the  elder  woman  going  leisurely 
on  in  the  precise  direction  from  which  Salome  had  just 
come.  And  she  rang  at  the  same  door  through  which  Sa- 
lome had  just  passed.  The  servant  who  let  her  in  evidently 
knew  her  well,  for  he  immediately  informed  her  that  his 
mistress  was  "  in  the  stoodio,"  whereupon  the  visitor  walked 
directly  to  that  place  and  knocked  at  the  door,  which  was 
opened  by  Mrs.  Bradford,  who  was  enveloped  in  a  long 
white  pinafore,  and  who  had  her  palette  in  her  hand,  and 
the  handles  of  two  small  brushes  between  her  lips.  These 
last  she  immediately  removed  as  she  greeted  her  visitor. 

"  If  you  had  been  any  one  else  I  wouldn't  have  let  you 
in,"  she  said,  cordially. 

"Then  this  is  one  of  the  times  when  I'm  glad  I'm  my- 
self," was  the  response.  "  But  I  don't  come  nearly  as  often 
as  I  want  to.  You  know  I  have  to  walk  every  day;  it's 
dreadful  to  grow  fat  as  you  grow  old.  Let  me  take  a  bit 


SOME   MONTHS   LATER  189 

of  this  drapery  for  my  terrier  to  lie  on.  My  terrier  is  fat, 
too.  There,  now  we  are  both  settled.  Go  right  on  with 
your  work.  I  like  to  see  you  paint.  But  I  always  have  a 
teasing  desire  to  paint  you  when  you  are  painting.  I  met  a 
girl  on  the  Common  just  now.  I  wish  I  had  caught  her 
and  brought  her  to  you.  You  could  have  made  her  por- 
trait and  called  it  '  Happiness.'  What  a  lovely  thing  it  is 
that  once  in  a  while  a  woman  may  be  happy !  Are  you  at 
work  on  anything  very  important  ?" 

"  Of  course.     I  always  work  on  important  things." 

"  I  know.  And  everybody  says  that  your  '  Still  Pool  in 
Spring'  is  extremely  important.  But,  somehow,  I  don't 
care  so  much  for  that  still  pool  as  the  critics  seem  to  care. 
I  like  the  white  birches  about  it." 

The  two  seemed  so  much  at  home  with  each  other  that 
there  was  entire  silence  for  a  space.  At  last  the  visitor, 
having  ceased  to  be  short-breathed  from  her  walk,  rose 
and  came  round  in  front  of  the  canvas. 

"  Ah  !"  she  exclaimed.  Mrs.  Bradford  looked  at  her  in 
surprised  expectancy. 

"  Well,  Mrs.  Sears,  what  is  it  ?" 

"  Why,  it's  my  happy  girl !  So  you've  found  her,  too ! 
I'm  glad  of  it.  You  can  paint  her,  if  any  one  can ;  and 
then,  when  the  thing  is  exhibited,  people  will  walk  up  to  it 
and  wonder  why  you  chose  such  a  subject,  and  they  will 
say  you  chose  from  a  fool's  paradise.  But  who  would  not 
choose  to  be  a  fool  like  this  ?" 

Mrs.  Sears  stood  long  before  the  sketch.  Her  face  grew 
very  serious.  Finally  she  walked  back  to  the  lounging- 
chair  and  sat  down  without  speaking. 

Out-of-doors,  in  the  clear  sunshine  that  had  some  warmth 
in  it,  Salome  was  hurrying  along  to  the  hotel  which,  for  the 
time,  was  her  home.  When  she  reached  it  she  did  not  care 
to  take  the  elevator.  She  still  wished  to  be  moving.  She 
felt  the  exhilarating  possession  of  abounding  life. 

She  hastened  along  a  corridor  on  the  second  flight.  With 
her  key  in  her  hand,  she  stopped  before  a  certain  door.  But 


IQO  OUT   OF   STEP 

this  door  was  immediately  opened  from  within.  A  tall  fel- 
low, with  a  closely-cut  yellow  beard  and  a  general  expres- 
sion which  was  not  an  expression  of  misery,  gently  took 
Salome's  arm  and  drew  her  into  the  first  of  the  two  apart- 
ments that  were  splendid  with  the  upholstery  and  the  white 
and  gold  of  a  gorgeous  hotel. 

"  I  knew  it  was  your  step,"  said  Moore,  leading  his  com- 
panion forward  a  little,  apparently  that  he  might  look  at  her 
better. 

"  Now,  don't  tell  me  that,"  she  said  ;  "  you  couldn't  hear 
my  step  over  such  carpets  as  this  magnificent  house  has  on 
its  floors." 

"  Well,  I  knew  it  was  time  to  hear  your  step,"  answered 
the  young  man,  "  for  I  saw  you  cross  the  street  about  three 
minutes  ago,  and  I  calculated.  You  walk  up  the  stairs ; 
you  appear  here ;  I  open  the  door,  for  I  have  been  waiting 
for  you  half  an  hour.  I  have  had  no  lunch ;  I  am  starving. 
I  declined  lunching  with  a  friend  so  that  I  might  get  back 
to  you  the  sooner,  and  I  find  vacancy,  desolation." 

While  he  talked  Salome  was  looking  at  him  as  she  took 
off  her  gloves  and  pulled  the  pins  from  her  bonnet.  Though 
he  was  smiling  and  talked  easily,  though  his  face  showed 
his  joy  at  seeing  her,  a  faint  film  of  cloud  came  over  her 
spirits.  She  could  not  guess  what  it  was.  She  was  sure  it 
was  something. 

She  had  been  eager  to  tell  her  husband  of  the  incident  of 
the  morning.  But  now  she  asked  instead : 

"Randolph,  has  anything,  the  least  little  thing  in  the 
world,  happened  ?" 


XII 

"THAT   LITTLE   RIFT" 

FOR  answer  Moore  put  his  hands  on  Salome's  shoulders 
and  looked  down  at  her.  She  met  the  gaze  with  clear, 
questioning  eyes  that  might  have  helped  to  disarm  even  a 
stern  judge,  and  this  man  was  a  lover  and  not  a  judge.  His 
face  grew  more  and  more  wistful  and  puzzled. 

Finally  he  dropped  his  hands  and  turned  away. 

"  I  cannot  understand  it,"  he  said,  as  if  to  himself. 

Salome's  lips  set  themselves  a  little.  She  was  afraid, 
but  she  was  only  vaguely  and  indefinitely  afraid.  (.When 
one  is  happy  fear  is  never  far  away.,  She  walked  quickly  to 
a  chair  and  sat  down.  She  managed  to  control  her  voice 
as  she  asked : 

"  What  is  it  that  you  cannot  understand  ?  Is  it  anything 
about  me  ?" 

"Yes,  it  is  all  about  you.  I  suppose  that  it  isn't  to  be 
expected  that  women  should  have  the  same  regard  for  truth 
that  men  have — "  Here  Salome  became  a  degree  paler. 
"Women  are  very  different.  They  have  their  faults,  and 
their  virtues.  You  can't  judge  them  by  the  same  standard 
as  you  use  in  judging  men.  Isn't  that  the  way  it  is  ?" 

Moore  was  walking  about  the  room.  He  was  continually 
glancing  at  his  wife,  who  returned  his  glance.  He  seemed 
to  be  trying  to  arrive  at  something;  struggling  for  some 
light  that  should  dissipate  a  darkness  that  was  about  him. 
His  face  showed  suffering  and  an  intolerable  perplexity. 

"  Isn't  that  the  way  it  is  ?"  he  repeated,  stopping  in  front 
of  his  companion.  "  It's  just  because  you  are  a  woman, 


1 92  OUT  OF   STEP 

isn't  it,  that  you  don't  —  that  you  can't  —  tell  the  truth 
always  ?" 

He  felt  that  his  last  words  were  brutal,  but  he  had  to 
speak  them. 

Salome's  white  face  was  still  turned  steadily  towards  him. 

"  There  have  been  two  or  three  little  things  about  which 
you  haven't  been  truthful — but  I'm  not  going  to  talk  about 
them.  Perhaps  it  was  a  kind  of  inaccurate,  feminine  way." 

He  paused  here,  but  he  evidently  had  much  more  in  his 
mind  which  he  must  express. 

Salome  was  still  silent.  Moore  walked  to  the  end  of  the 
room  and  came  back.  He  stood  over  Salome ;  then  he  put 
his  hand  with  tenderest  touch  on  her  hair. 

"It's  just  because  you're  a  woman,  isn't  it?"  he  asked 
again.  Then  he  whispered  "  Dearest,"  and  dropped  down 
on  his  knee  beside  her,  resting  his  face  on  her  shoulder  as 
he  had  done  before  when  some  suffering  was  between  them. 

At  last  he  said,  still  with  his  head  on  her  shoulder : 

"  Something  happened  to-day  so  that  I  had  to  speak  of 
these  things.  And  you  must  forgive  me.  And  don't  you 
think  it's  best  to  talk  things  over  and  have  the  air 
cleared  ?" 

Now  he  rose  and  began  walking  again. 

"  Yes ;  I  think  it's  best,"  answered  Salome,  speaking 
quickly.  "  And  it  is  not  just  because  I'm  a  woman,  Ran- 
dolph. You  mustn't  try  to  think  that.  I  can't  hide  behind 
that." 

"  Then  what  is  it  ?" 

Salome  pressed  her  hand  to  her  chest. 

"  Oh,  it's  all  coming  true,"  she  exclaimed,  with  apparent 
irrelevance. 

"  What  is  coming  true  ?" 

"The  bad  omen — the  bad  sign — when  the  crows  would 
fly  over  us  in  Florida." 

"  Salome — my  darling — you  really  must  not  yield  to  any 
such  folly  as  that." 

Moore  spoke  imperatively.     Salome  was  leaning  far  back 


"  THAT    LITTLE    RIFT  " 


193 


in  her  chair,  her  head  resting  against  the  dark  velvet,  her 
strained  eyes  intensely  fixed  upon  her  husband's  face. 

"  I've  tried  not  to  speak  of  this,"  now  went  on  Moore  in 
his  gentlest  way,  but  with  a  certain  firmness  which  showed 
that  he  was  resolved  to  say  a  few  things,  "  but  I  want  to 
understand  better  if  I  can." 

"  You  can't  understand,"  said  Salome.  "  I  don't  care  for 
the  truth  because  it  is  the  truth.  I  told  you  that  long  ago. 
Perhaps  you  thought  you  could  teach  me  to  care.  You 
could  do  it  if  any  one  could.  I  do  try.  But,  somehow,  it 
isn't  in  me.  Falsehood  doesn't  shock  me.  If  it's  pleas- 
anter,  if  it's  going  to  be  more  comfortable — sometimes  it 
doesn't  seem  as  if  I  quite  realized  that  I  had  perverted  the 
truth.  Oh,  it's  not  because  I  am  a  woman,  Randolph. 
Think  of  my  mother !  Do  you  think  my  mother  would  lie, 
Randolph  ?  No,  she  wouldn't  lie,  even  to  save  me." 

At  this  there  came  such  a  look  of  agony  on  Salome's  face 
that  Moore  suddenly  stooped  and  took  her  in  his  arms.  He 
sat  down  in  the  chair  from  which  he  had  lifted  her,  still 
holding  her  closely.  He  bowed  his  head  over  her,  murmur- 
ing indistinguishable  words  of  tenderness. 

She  seemed  to  wish  to  say  more. 

"I've  tried  so  hard,"  she  said,  "no — you  need  not  stop 
me  now — I  must  talk  or  I  shall  not  be  able  to  bear  it.  I 
tell  you  I  don't  have  what  the  minister  used  to  call  a  '  real- 
izing sense  '—I  tell  you  I  don't  have  it.  One  might  think 
I  love  you  well  enough  to  do  differently.  I  love  you 
with  all  my  heart.  Do  you  think  you  know  how  I  love 
you  ?" 

She  put  her  arm  about  his  neck  as  she  went  on. 

"  Randolph,  do  you  suppose  it  is  possible  to  pluck  out  a 
trait  bodily,  as  it  were,  and  cast  it  from  you,  as  you  might 
take  out  a  tooth  or  cut  off  your  hand  ?  Just  pluck  it  out  ? 
Sometimes  I  think  I've  done  it,  and  then  when  I  have  con- 
gratulated myself,  I  find  all  at  once  that  I  have  not  done  it. 
And  it  does  seem  as  if  I  love  you  enough  to  make  my  whole 
character  over  to  please  you." 


194 


OUT   OF  STEP 


"  Hush  !  Salome,  not  to  please  me.  But  you  know  that 
truth  is  the  foundation  of  everything." 

"Oh,  I  know  it!  That's  what  my  mother  always  says. 
So  I  know  it  is  true.  But  I  only  know  it  intellectually,  you 
see.  I  don't  know  it  experimentally,  as  they  say  about  re- 
ligion." 

Salome  sighed  deeply.     She  kept  her  face  closely  hidden. 

After  a  silence,  during  which  Moore's  countenance  showed 
his  keen  suffering  and  perplexity,  Salome  spoke  again. 

"What  made  you  think  particularly  of  all  this,  and  of 
how  wicked  I  am,  just  to-day?" 

"I  am  not  calling  you  wicked,"  he  responded,  hastily. 
"  I  can't  make  you  seem  wicked." 

Her  arm  held  him  still  more  closely; 

"What  made  you  think  of  this ?"  she  persisted. 

He  hesitated,  then  he  said : 

"  I  think  often  of  all  this ;  but  the  reason  just  now  for 
my  speaking,  I  suppose,  is  that  I  saw  Mrs.  Darrah  this 
morning." 

"  Did  you  ?    Well  ?" 

Salome  now  lifted  her  head.  She  looked  inquiringly  at 
her  companion. 

"  Yes.  She  is  at  the  Vendome.  She  was  in  a  carriage, 
and  she  saw  me  on  Tremont  Street.  She  spoke  to  me,  and 
asked  me  to  drive  with  her  a  few  moments." 

"Well?"  said  Salome  once  more,  and  she  added,  "You 
knew  all  about  the  forged  check  long  ago,  Randolph,  and 
you  paid  what  mother  and  I  had  not  paid.  You  were  so 
good  about  that.  You  are  so  good,  any  way." 

Her  voice  trembled  and  she  put  her  head  down  on  his 
shoulder  again. 

He  did  not  say  anything  on  the  subject  of  his  goodness. 
He  did  not  think  it  was  any  great  goodness  on  his  part 
that  had  made  him  do  as  he  had  done.  He  loved  Salome 
supremely.  Of  late  he  was  beginning  to  believe  that  it  was 
possible  that  he  had  been  mistaken  in  that  unspoken  con- 
viction which  had  been  his,  that,  once  Salome  was  his  own, 


"THAT  LITTLE  RIFT"  195 

to  be  with  him  always,  then  his  influence,  their  mutual  love, 
would  work  a  change  in  her  character.  He  could  modify 
her,  make  her  think  and  do  differently  in  certain  directions. 
Many  of  us  are  subject  at  some  period  in  our  lives  to  such 
a  delusion.  Perhaps  in  the  first  days  of  love  we  perceive 
our  influence  upon  the  beloved  object,  or  we  think  that  we 
perceive  it.  Of  course  we  mean  that  it  shall  be  an  influence 
for  good.  We  have  an  ingrained,  life-long  conviction  which 
that  dear  one  must  share.  But  the  days  pass  and  she  does 
not  share  it.  But  her  trait,  her  belief,  occasionally  shows 
distinctly,  as  a  sharp  rock  stands  out  boldly  at  low  tide. 
There  is  the  rock.  There  it  will  always  be.  Not  that  a 
mere  difference  of  opinion  is  vitally  separating  in  its  effects, 
save  when  the  difference  is  an  indication  of  character. 

Moore  felt  as  he  sat  there  holding  his  wife  tenderly  in 
his  arms  that  for  them  to  have  opposite  ways  of  valuing  the 
truth  was  likely  to  be  more  disastrous  than  he  could  have 
anticipated. 

He  ha'd  more  to  say,  and  he  was  resolved  to  say  it.  But 
the  saying  was  even  more  difficult  than  he  had  imagined  it 
would  be. 

As  for  Salome,  the  mere  consciousness  that  she  was  held 
lovingly  in  her  husband's  arms  went  a  great  way  towards 
banishing  anxiety.  But  the  anxiety  remained  nevertheless, 
and  the  uneasy  curiosity.  For  the  last  six  months,  and 
especially  since  Moore  had  completely  recovered  from  the 
effects  of  his  injury,  Salome  had  been  so  happy  that  her 
only  fear  had  been  lest  she  was  too  happy.  It  is  not  dur- 
ing happiness  that  even  the  most  conscientious  are  likely 
to  feel  the  stings  of  conscience,  and  Salome  was  not  natu- 
rally conscientious. 

She  now  asked  if  Mrs.  Darrah  were  coming  to  see  them?  or 
did  she  ask  them  to  call  ?  or  had  she  forgotten  them  entirely  ? 

It  was  the  last  question  to  which  Moore  found  it  easiest 
to  reply. 

"  No,  she  had  not  forgotten  us  in  the  least.  She  inquired 
very  particularly  about  you." 


1^6  OUT   OF   STEP 

There  was  something  in  the  tone  in  which  this  answer 
was  given  that  made  Salome  sit  upright.  She  had  not  seen 
Mrs.  Darrah  since  that  winter  in  Florida,  now  more  than  a 
year  and  a  half  ago. 

Moore  felt  himself  growing  more  and  more  uneasy. 

"She  said  something  which  troubled  you  —  something 
about  me,"  said  Salome,  speaking  very  quickly. 

Moore  did  not  respond  directly.  He  frowned  slightly. 
Finally  he  answered : 

"  She  referred  to  that  time  when  I  was  injured.  You 
know  I  never  can  remember  clearly  about  that  time.  And 
a  man  hates  to  think  of  a  part  of  his  life  when  he  was  not 
quite  himself — that  he  cannot  recall.  It  gives  a  sort  of 
helpless  feeling." 

"  But  it's  all  over  now,"  returned  Salome,  "  and  you  are 
entirely  yourself.  And  we  are  very  happy,  aren't  we  ?" 

She  stroked  his  face  softly.     He  took  her  hand. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "we  are  very  happy." 

But  there  was  something  in  his  tone,  gentle  as  it  was,  that 
chilled  Salome.  She  knew  that  there  was  more  that  must 
be  said ;  and  that  it  must  be  said  now.  She  tried  to  speak 
lightly. 

"What  were  you  and  Mrs.  Darrah  talking  about?"  she 
asked. 

"Various  things." 

Moore  still  shrank  from  telling  what  was  in  his  mind. 

Salome's  next  question  came  rather  hesitatingly. 

"  Is  Miss  Nunally  with  her  aunt  ?" 

"I  judge  not.  In  fact,  I  remember  that  Mrs.  Darrah 
mentioned  that  her  niece  is  in  Florida  this  winter  with 
some  friends ;  in  St.  Augustine." 

"  Oh ;  is  Miss  Nunally  married  ?" 

"  No.  Salome,"  with  a  visibly  painful  effort,  "  I  may  as 
well  say  what  I've  got  to  say  first  as  last.  After  my  mind 
had  cleared,  and  I  was  really  recovered  from  the  effects  of 
that  blow,  and  you  were  my  wife,  you  remember  that  I  asked 
you  how  matters  were  arranged  with  Miss  Nunally.  I  was 


'THAT  LITTLE  RIFT" 


197 


engaged  to  her,  you  know.  Try  all  I  may  I  cannot  recol- 
lect how  things  were  settled.  I  have  cloudy  memories,  but 
nothing  clear,  nothing  satisfactory.  It  is  like  trying  to  look 
into  a  darkened  room,  where  there  is  a  little,  a  very  little, 
light,  that  is  really  more  confusing  than  darkness.  But  I've 
told  you  before  that  I  couldn't  remember." 

"  Yes,"  said  Salome.  She  did  not  add  that  she  had  been 
glad  that  he  could  not  remember.  She  said  in  a  moment, 
however,  that  at  the  time  he  had  seemed  very  much  like 
himself. 

"  After  you  were  better,  you  know.  Not  exactly  yourself, 
but  not  very  much  different,"  with  an  endeavor  to  be  accu- 
rate. 

"  And  when  I  asked  you  how  it  was  about  Miss  Nunally," 
went  on  Moore,  "  for  you  know  that  if  the  engagement  be- 
tween her  and  myself  was  to  be  broken  I  wanted  it  done  in 
an  open,  honorable  way,  you  told  me — Salome,  do  you  re- 
member what  you  told  me  ?" 

"  I  remember." 

"Yes;  and  so  do  I,  for  that  was  when  things  were  nat- 
ural to  me  again.  You  said  that  she  believed  that  I  should 
never  be  myself  again  ;  that  she  thought  of  my  love  for  you, 
and  considering  all  things,  she  released  me ;  and  then  I 
wished  you  to  become  my  wife  immediately." 

"  Yes,"  said  Salome,  "  that  is  what  I  told  you." 

"  I  recall  our  marriage  in  a  curious  way,  without  the  right 
perspective  somehow.  But  I  continued  to  grow  better. 
Things  became  clearer.  There  was  some  talk  of  another 
operation,  as  if  there  were  still  some  pressure  on  the  brain, 
but  it  turned  out  that  this  was  not  necessary.  Perhaps  I 
was  so  happy  that  I  could  not  help  getting  well.  No,  don't 
interrupt  me  now,"  as  Salome  was  about  to  speak,  "if  I 
am  interrupted  I  shall  not  be  able  to  go  on,  for  I  am  going 
to  say  something  which  it  seems  almost  impossible  for  me 
to  say.  I  am  going  to  tell  you  what  Mrs.  Darrah  told  me 
this  morning." 

Here,  in  spite  of  his  assertion  that  he  could  not  go  on  if 


ig8  OUT   OF   STEP 

he  paused,  Moore's  speech  abruptly  seemed  to  end.  His 
eyes  were  persistently  turned  from  his  companion,  and  there 
was  so  much  suffering  visible  in  his  face  that  Salome,  too 
tender-hearted  to  be  able  to  look  at  him,  suddenly  rose 
from  her  place  in  his  arms  and  sat  down  with  averted  head, 
waiting  until  he  should  go  on.  She  could  not  interrogate 
him  any  further.  She  must  wait. 

Moore  straightened  himself  and  clasped  the  arms  of  his 
chair. 

"  I  thought  first  that  I  would  keep  this  from  you,"  he  went 
on  after  a  silence,  "but  you  would  know  instantly  that  I  was 
keeping  something.  You  dive  right  into  my  heart ;  I  can't 
keep  anything  from  you.  But  I  meant  to  try.  You  know 
how  you  began  to  question  me  the  moment  you  came  in. 
Mrs.  Darrah  told  me  that  Miss  Nunally  did  not  break  her 
engagement  to  me  ;  that  up  to  the  very  moment  of  our  mar- 
riage, it  was  she,  and  not  you,  who  expected  to  be  my  wife. 
She  gave  me  no  details.  She  seemed  to  think  that  I  knew 
all  about  the  affair,  or  I  am  sure  she  would  have  been  silent 
on  the  subject.  But  after  she  had  made  a  remark  or  two  I 
suppose  my  face  must  have  betrayed  my  ignorance,  though 
I  made  every  effort  that  it  should  not  do  so.". 

Now  that  Moore  had  spoken  what  was  in  his  mind,  he 
turned  to  look  at  his  wife,  impelled  by  an  irresistible  long- 
ing to  comfort  her.  He  went  to  her  side  quickly. 

But  she  shrank  somewhat,  and  he  stood  irresolutely  near 
her.  He  was  thinking  that  he  had  never  before  known  his 
full  capacity  for  suffering. 

Salome  looked  up  at  him  ;  but  apparently  she  could  not 
continue  looking  at  him. 

"  I  meant  to  ask  you  something,"  she  said,  presently. 

Having  thus  spoken,  she  appeared  to  find  it  impossible 
to  go  on.  But  she  did  succeed  in  saying  in  a  dry  voice : 

"  I  want  to  ask  if  you  regret  that  it  was  not  Miss  Nunally 
instead  of  me — " 

"  Salome,  be  silent !" 

Moore   spoke  with   such  sharp  command  that  his  wife 


"THAT  LITTLE  RIFT" 


199 


could  not  recognize  his  voice.  She  was  not  silenced,  how- 
ever. She  only  shrank  a  little  more,  still  keeping  her  gaze 
upon  his  face. 

"I  want  you  to  answer  me,"  she  insisted.  "  Tell  me  wheth- 
er you  are  glad  I  am  your  wife ;  whether  you  ever  regret  for 
an  instant  that  it  was  not  that  other  woman  whom  you  mar- 
ried. I  don't  care  how  it  happened  that  you  did  marry  me, 
are  you  glad  I  am  with  you  ?  Now  tell  me  the  truth.  You 
needn't  spare  me.  But  I  shall  know  whether  you  tell  me 
the  truth  or  not.  Answer  me." 

As  she  finished  speaking  Salome  had  risen  from  the  chair 
in  which  she  had  seated  herself. 

She  had  somehow  the  aspect  of  a  creature  who  is  about 
to  fly.  Moore  felt  as  if  he  must  detain  her  by  force,  and 
yet  there  was  something  which  just  now  prevented  his  touch- 
ing her.  He  involuntarily  glanced  at  the  outer  door  and 
wished  that  it  was  locked. 

"  If  you  don't  know  how  I  love  you,"  he  began,  "  it  is  en- 
tirely useless  for  me  to  tell  you.  Vou  know  I  came  to  you 
— you  know  I  told  you  I  loved  you — you  know— but,  good 
heavens  !  Salome,  what's  the  use  of  talking  ?  I  haven't  got 
any  words.  I  can't  say  anything !  Not  anything.  No  man 
in  this  world  was  ever  so  happy  as  you  make  me.  You 
know  it,  too." 

Salome  had  put  her  hands  together  as  she  listened  to  him. 
There  was  a  clear  shining  coming  upon  her  too  sensitive  face. 

"  And  you  are  glad  I  am  with  you  ?" 

Moore  could  not  help  smiling  at  this  very  feminine  reit- 
eration. He  felt  that  the  tension  upon  her  was  too  great. 

"  Don't  you  see  that  I  am  perfectly  wretched  with  you  ?" 
he  asked,  trying  to  speak  lightly. 

She  sighed  deeply.  Then  she  also  smiled  slightly  as  she 
said : 

"  Then  you  have  disguised  your  feelings ;  for,  really,  you 
have  seemed  happy." 

It  was  Moore's  inclination  to  reply  lightly  again,  but  it 
was  impressed  upon  him  that  he  must  not  drop  the  subject 


200  OUT   OF   STEP 

yet;  he  had  not  yet  made  his  point.  It  seemed  to  him  that 
he  must  make  Salome  understand  what  was  in  his  mind. 
But  it  was  very  hard  for  him  to  know  how  to  say  what  he 
was  thinking.  He  saw  that  she  was  longing  to  let  the  mat- 
ter pass  out  of  their  thoughts  if  possible ;  that  she  wanted 
to  get  out  of  these  clouds  into  sunlight  again.  Now  that 
she  was  satisfied  with  his  attitude  towards  her — as,  indeed, 
why  should  she  not  be  satisfied  ? — she  considered  that  this 
talk  might  be  forgotten  altogether.  But  he  must  go  on. 
She  saw  that  he  had  still  more  to  say,  and  her  face  clouded 
again. 

Moore  walked  to  her  side  and  put  his  arm  about  her.  He 
had  a  feeling  that  he  wished  to  protect  her  even  against  his 
own  words. 

"  One  thing  that  hurts  me  is  this,"  he  began,  resolutely, 
"  that  I  seem  to  have  behaved  in  an  unmanly  and  horribly 
ungentlemanly  way  to  Miss  Nunally.  I  tell  you  I  can't 
bear  to  think  of  it !" 

Moore's  face  flushed  deeply  as  he  spoke. 

"  Don't  feel  so,"  said  Salome,  tenderly ;  "  you  know  there 
is  every  excuse  and  explanation  ;  you  were  not  yourself.  I 
think  everybody  understood  that  you  were  not  yourself.  So 
you  were  not  responsible.  Do  you  know,"  looking  up  at  him 
intently,  "  that  if  I  ever  suspected  that  you  didn't  love  me 
with  your  whole  heart,  your  very  whole  heart,  I  should  tell 
you  that  the  lawyers  might  think  you  could  easily  be  free  of 
me.  I  don't  understand  about  it,  but  I  should  think  if  you 
pleaded  that  you  were  not  quite  yourself  when  you  married 
me — " 

"  Salome,  how  can  you  be  so  cruel  ?" 

Moore's  voice  burst  in  upon  his  wife's  words. 

"Well,  I  mean  it,"  she  went  on.  "If  the  time  should 
ever  come  when  I  didn't  make  you  happy — " 

Here  she  was  unable  to  continue. 

"It's  perfectly  ridiculous  for  you  to  talk  like  that,"  said 
Moore,  trying  to  speak  in  a  matter-of-fact  way.  "  It's  mor- 
bid and  unhealthy ;  perhaps  it's  even  abnormal,"  he  tried  to 


"THAT  LITTLE  RIFT"  201 

smile,  his  lips  moving  in  that  mechanical  way  which  is  much 
worse  than  no  attempt  at  a  smile.  Then  he  said,  hurriedly: 

"  I'm  going  to  have  this  thing  out  now,  and  then  be  done 
with  it.  Salome — "  he  paused  as  if,  after  all,  it  was  really 
impossible  for  him  to  go  on ;  then  he  took  her  face  between 
his  hands  and  said,  his  voice  almost  breaking  as  he  spoke : 

"  Salome,  I  do  wish  that  you  hadn't  told  a — that  you  had 
told  the  truth  to  me  about  Miss  Nunally  and  me.  She 
didn't  break  the  engagement.  You  said  that  she  did." 

Salome's  eyes  seemed  to  dim  over  with  darkness  instead 
of  with  tears ;  her  face  was  drawn. 

"  Yes,"  she  responded,  "  I  said  so." 

"  But  it  wasn't  true,"  said  Moore. 

"  No ;  but  I  knew  you  would  be  so  much  happier  if  you 
believed  it,  and  we  have  been  happier ;  oh,  Randolph,  don't 
you  think  we've  been  perfectly  happy  ?" 

"  Yes,  yes,  you  know  I  think  so.  But  don't  you  see  we 
are  not  talking  about  that  now  ?  Don't  you  see  what  I 
mean?" 

Moore  was  in  despair.  The  acute  misery  in  his  wife's 
face  was  terrible  for  him  to  see,  and  yet,  having  spoken  thus 
much,  he  must  go  on. 

"  I  mean,"  he  said,  "that  I  wish  you  hadn't  told  me  what 
you  did  :  it  wasn't  true,  you  know." 

"  No,"  she  repeated  after  him,  "  it  wasn't  true.  Ran- 
dolph, perhaps,  after  all,  you  can't  respect  me.  You  know 
I  told  you  long  ago,  when  I  confessed  to  you  about  that 
check,  that  I  was  afraid  you  couldn't  respect  me ;  and  that 
I  was  afraid  you  wouldn't  be  happy  with  me.  And  now 
you're  not  going  to  be  happy  with  me." 

She  withdrew  herself  from  him  and  sat  down.  She  did 
not  fling  herself  down.  She  was  very  quiet.  Instead  of 
covering  her  face  with  her  hands  she  put  both  hands  upon 
her  chest  and  pressed  them  there  rigidly. 

Moore  felt  wretchedly  helpless,  and  he  felt  also  that  this 
scene  should  not  continue.  It  seemed  to  him  that  it  would 
kill  him,  strong  man  as  he  was;  but,  he  told  himself,  he 


202  OUT   OF    STEP 

could  bear  it ;  but  Salome  could  not ;  it  was  cruel  to  allow 
her  to  bear  it. 

"  How  silly  we  are  !"  he  exclaimed.  "  Let's  be  reason- 
able mortals  instead  of  hysterical  creatures.  Come,  Salome, 
look  at  me ;  be  happy  with  me  j  for  we  are  going  to  keep 
right  on  being  happy.  Dearest,"  he  sat  down  by  her  again, 
his  sense  of  his  love  revealing  itself  in  his  tone  as  he  spoke 
that  word,  "  don't  let's  be  silly  any  longer.  Let's  have  our 
lunch.  We  are  half  starved,  that  partly  accounts  for  this 
scene.  You  need  a  cup  of  tea  and  I  need  a  chop.  The 
world  will  look  differently  to  us  then.  Only,  Salome — "  he 
had  her  in  his  arms  again  now,  "  do,  do  think  a  little  more 
of  the  truth.  Won't  you  ?  And  please  don't  tell  me  things 
that  are  not  true." 

"  Oh,  I  will  try.  But,  Randolph,  I  don't  feel  about  such 
things  as  you  do ;  and  I  don't  know  how  it  is,  but  I'm  not 
at  all  sure  that  I  shall  think  in  time  —  and  things  look  dif- 
ferently to  me." 

Having  spoken  thus  in  a  tremulously  earnest  voice,  Sa- 
lome laid  her  cheek  against  Moore's  and  whispered  : 

"  You  still  think  you  can  be  happy  with  me  ?" 

"  I'm  still  sure  of  it — sure  of  it,"  was  the  ardent  whisper 
back. 

Then  Moore  thought  of  the  "higher  life,"  and  all  his  the- 
ories and  aspirations. 

"  But  I  suppose  happiness  isn't  the  main  thing,  after  all," 
he  said. 

|  "  That's  what  mother  says,"  was  the  response.  "  But  we 
, can't  help  longing  to  be  happy,  can  we  ?  And  we  seem  mads 
to  be  happy,  don't  we,  since  we  have  such  a  capacity  fo, 
happiness?  Dear  love,"  with  her  cheek  again  upon  his, 
"you  will  never,  never  know  how  I  love  you." 

Moore  assured  her  that  he  knew  at  that  very  moment. 

Presently  the  two  went  down  to  lunch.  As  they  sat  at  the 
table  they  talked  gayly  in  that  reaction  which  is  likely  to 
come  after  such  an  hour  as  they  had  just  spent. 

After  lunch  Moore  was  obliged  to  go  out  directly.     He  at- 


"THAT  LITTLE  RIFT"  203 

tended  to  some  business  with  his  usual  interest  apparently, 
but  he  knew  that  he  had  really  little  interest  in  it ;  it  was 
only  a  mechanical  habit  of  mind  that  asserted  itself.  In  the 
recesses  of  his  thought  was  an  indefinite  dissatisfaction  with 
the  way  he  had  talked  to  his  wife.  He  had  been  quite  sure 
he  could  speak  more  to  the  point  than  he  had  done;  he  had 
failed  to  impress  her  as  he  meant  to  do.  He  did  not  quite 
know  how  or  why  he  had  failed.  And  how  dear  she  was  to 
him  !  How  she  was  knit  into  his  very  heart !  Some  time 
he  would  be  able  to  say  to  her  just  what  he  wished  and  as 
he  wished.  And  there  was  in  his  consciousness  that  back- 
ground of  troublous  memory  of  the  way  he  had  treated  Miss 
Nunally.  It  was  but  a  humiliating  kind  of  comfort  to  think 
that  he  had  not  been  "  quite  himself."  |  No  one  likes  to 
think  of  a  time  when  he  was  not  quite  himself.'  He  won- 
dered what  else  he  did  during  those  weeks.  He  knew  he 
had  married  then.  He  remembered  distinctly  the  moment 
when  he  had  stood  by  Salome  in  the  little  sitting-room  of 
the  farm-house,  and  when  he  had  answered  the  minister's 
questions.  He  remembered  precisely  the  tone  in  which  Sa- 
lome had  replied.  But  he  could  only  recall  in  the  most 
misty  manner  the  fact  that  there  had  been  a  clergyman 
present. 

But  he  was  glad  that  Salome  was  his  wife.  When  he 
reached  that  point  in  his  often-repeated  attempts  at  a  clear 
recollection,  his  heart  always  bounded  with  thankfulness 
that  Salome  was  his  wife. 

This  afternoon,  when  it  came  towards  night,  he  did  not 
go  directly  back  to  his  hotel.  He  wanted  to  be  alone  for  a 
time.  Salome's  presence  still  had  power  of  glamour  over 
him,  and  of  confusion  to  calm  thought.  And  he  wanted  to 
think  calmly.  As  he  sat  virtually  alone,  however,  in  a  room 
of  a  club  which  he  sometimes  frequented,  he  could  not  but 
ask  himself  of  what  use  it  would  be  to  him  to  think  matters 
over.  It  is  not  after  things  have  happened  that  it  avails  to 
think  them  over,  unless  it  be  with  reference  to  future  hap- 
penings. 


204  OUT   OF    STEP 

But  Moore  sat  there  staring  in  front  of  him,  his  lips  shut 
tightly  and  his  hands  deep  in  his  pockets,  after  the  manner 
of  some  men  when  they  think  they  are  thinking  deeply.  He 
was  not  aware  for  a  long  time  that  he  was  merely  in  a  rev- 
erie, and  the  background  of  this  reverie  was  always  Salome. 
What  was  the  use  to  wish  that  she  was  different  in  that  one 
particular  ?  He  had  known  before.  He  knew  that  if  he 
had  known  even  more,  he  should  have  married  her,  if  pos- 
sible. He  loved  hen  Continually  those  words  came  to  his 
consciousness,  and  almost  to  his  lips. 

But  how  would  things  have  turned  out  if  he  had  not  been 
hurt  ?  Salome  had  sent  for  him  ;  he  was  not  free,  but  he 
had  gone  to  see  her,  and  he  had  found  that  he  loved  her 
more  than  ever.  He  supposed  that  he  ought  not  to  have 
gone  to  her;  he  ought  to  have  written  and  explained.  But 
he  simply  could  not  do  that.  Perhaps  there  were  some  men 
who  could  do  that  kind  of  thing. 

Here  Moore  made  an  involuntary  movement  of  indigna- 
tion. He  became  aware  that  he  could  not  sit  still  any 
longer.  He  went  out  into  the  street  and  began  walking  rap- 
idly. He  knew  that  the  course  of  his  life  seemed  changed 
by  that  blow  from  Walter  Redd.  Still,  could  he  have  seen 
Salome  again,  as  he  fully  meant  to  do  that  night,  and  have 
gone  away  and  fulfilled  his  engagement  to  Miss  Nunally  ? 

Again,  perhaps  there  were  some  men  who  could  have 
done  that.  Moore  was  indignant  with  such  men. 

He  walked  down  Washington  Street,  glad  that  he  could 
bustle  almost  roughly  against  people  as  he  went.  As  the 
moments  passed,  the  delightful  knowledge  that  he  loved  and 
was  beloved  overcame  every  other  emotion  or  thought.  And 
his  future  was  settled.  The  woman  whom  he  loved  was  to 
be  his  all  their  lives. 

He  turned  and  went  back  swiftly  towards  the  hotel.  But 
as  he  went  he  could  not  keep  down  the  wish  that  she  might 
be  different  in  just  one  vital  respect.  Still,  in  this  glowing 
mood,  he  again  began  to  hope  that  he  should  be  able  to 
change  that  trait  in  her  character.  Surely  his  love  was  so 


"  THAT    LITTLE    RIFT  "  205 

great,  his  influence  visibly  so  great,  that  he  should  in  the 
end  accomplish  the  result  that  was  so  really  necessary.  He 
was  young  enough  and  he  loved  enough  to  be  absolutely 
sure  of  this  before  he  reached  the  hotel.  He  was  now  in 
that  childish  mood  when  he  would  rather  run  up-stairs  than 
wait  for  the  elevator. 

When  he  reached  the  landing  he  drew  out  his  watch.  It 
was  not  yet  seven.  He  and  Salome  would  dine  directly, 
then  they  would  go  to  see  some  play.  There  was  nothing 
better  than  a  good  play  and  good  acting  to  take  up  a  per- 
son's mind.  And  Irving  and  Terry  were  in  town.  Yes,  it 
should  be  Irving  and  Terry.  He  would  see  about  the  tick- 
ets as  soon  as  he  had  consulted  his  wife. 

How  very  foolish  he  had  been  to  be  so  depressed !  In 
another  moment  Salome  would  be  looking  up  at  him,  and 
in  her  eyes  would  be  that  gladness  which  was  his  dearest 
welcome. 

It  was  simply  impossible  to  be  seriously  troubled  con- 
cerning anything  since  he  had  Salome  ;  he  could  not  pos- 
sibly be  unhappy  for,  as  he  triumphantly  quoted  to  him- 
self, "  Love  was  lord  of  all." 

The  young  man's  face  was  radiant  as  he  opened  the  door. 
But  Salome  was  not  in  either  of  the  rooms.  It  had  hap- 
pened two  or  three  times  when  he  had  come  home  earlier 
than  usual  that  she  was  out ;  now  he  was  later  than  usual. 
His  heart  contracted  with  that  acute  fear  which  is  always 
ready  to  come  when  one  loves. 

Moore  looked  about  him.  He  was  actually  afraid  that  he 
should  find  on  the  pin-cushion  the  regulation  note  which 
the  heroine  of  a  novel  always  puts  on  the  pin-cushion  when 
she  is  intending  to  run  away  either  with  a  lover  or  by  her- 
self. 

Yes,  there  was  the  note.  Moore  walked  up  to  it  as  if  he 
were  walking  to  the  cannon's  mouth.  He  could  not  keep 
his  hand  from  trembling  as  he  took  up  the  envelope.  His 
unintentional  look  in  the  glass  showed  him  a  face  so  white 
and  full  of  fear  that  he  could  hardly  recognize  it. 


200  OUT   OF    STEP 

"  DEAR  RANDOLPH, — I  am  going  to  pin  this  on  the  cush- 
ion because  you  must  have  read  stories  enough  to  know 
where  to  look  for  a  note,  if  I'm  not  at  home  when  you  come 
in.  I  don't  want  to  go,  but  Mrs.  Darrah  has  sent  a  carriage 
from  the  Vendome.  If  I  stay  to  dinner  do  come  after  me. 
She  has  been  so  kind  to  me  that  of  course  I  must  go.  And 
"who  knows  but  what  I  may  give  her  material  ?  I  saw  a 
paragraph  the  other  day  saying  that  the  well-known  author- 
ess, Mrs.  Florence  Darrah,  was  engaged  upon  a  long  novel 
on  the  subject  of  general  ethics.  What  is  or  what  are  gen- 
eral ethics  ?  Here  I  am  writing  a  letter  to  you.  I  do  hate 
not  to  be  here  when  you  come.  There  are  some  street  mu- 
sicians outside  under  my  window  as  I  write.  I  wish  they 
hadn't  happened  to  play  '  Good-bye,  My  Lover,  Good-bye.' 
I'm  going  to  give  them  half  a  dollar  and  ask  them  to  play — 
you  know  what — that  little  thing  you  are  always  humming 
when  you  are  in  particularly  good  spirits.  You  see  I  can't 
seem  to  stop  writing  to  you.  Be  sure  and  come  to  the  Ven- 
dome if  I  am  not  back  by  eight  o'clock. 

"  SALOME." 

Moore  sank  down  in  a  chair  with  the  note  tightly  grasped ; 
he  was  smiling  tremulously,  and  there  was  a  stinging  in  his 
eyes.  The  reaction  from  that  first  terrible  feeling  was  too 
great.  Salome  was  so  intense;  Salome  was  so  —  but  he 
loved  her. 


XIII 

WITH   MRS.  DARRAH 

WHEN  Salome  was  shown  into  Mrs.  Darrah's  sitting-room 
at  the  Vendome  it  seemed  for  a  moment  as  if  she  had  once 
more  come  to  the  Ponce  de  Leon  in  St.  Augustine,  and  was 
to  write  at  this  lady's  dictation.  There  sat  Mrs.  Darrah  on 
a  couch  among  shawls ;  two  or  three  blue-and-green  bound 
note-books  were  within  reach.  But  the  windows  were  not 
open  to  let  in  the  soft,  fragrant  air  of  Florida ;  there  were 
no  palms  within  sight ;  instead,  there  were  the  naked 
boughs  of  the  trees  in  the  narrow  park  opposite. 

Mrs.  Darrah  rose  as  Salome  advanced.  She  held  out 
her  hand  and  pressed  cordially  the  one  given  in  response. 
She  looked  with  undisguised  keenness  at  her  visitor. 

"  Do  sit  down,"  she  said  ;  "  sit  down  opposite  me  in 
that  chair,  so  that  I  may  see  you  without  twisting  my  head 
round." 

Salome  obeyed.  She  asked  herself  when  the  dictation 
would  begin. 

Mrs.  Darrah  leaned  back,  drawing  a  shawl  about  her. 

"  I  suppose  you  have  an  idea  you  are  happy  ?"  she  re- 
marked. 

"  Yes,  I  have  that  idea,"  was  the  answer. 

"  No  doubt.  I  saw  Mr.  Moore  on  the  street  to-day.  He 
also  has  an  idea  that  he  is  happy,  too.  Odd,  isn't  it  ?  But 
then  there  are  times  in  our  lives  when  we  all  think  we  are 
happy.  This  is  the  time  with  you  and  that  young  man. 
Take  off  your  hat  and  furs,  please ;  you  have  an  air  as  if 
you  were  going  directly.  You  will  stay  to  dinner,  you 
know." 


208  OUT   OF    STEP 

Salome  rose  and  divested  herself  of  her  street  garments. 

"  That  is  right.  Now  sit  down  again.  Do  you  know,  I 
almost  want  to  dictate  to  you  ?  I've  always  had  a  fancy 
that  my  ideas  flowed  better  when  you  were  my  amanuen- 
sis. You  know  there  is  such  a  thing  as  some  subtle  em- 
anation from  a  personality  that  stimulates  one's  mind." 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  so,"  answered  Salome,  as  her  com- 
panion paused.  She  laughed  as  she  added  that  if  that 
were  really  true,  exactly  the  right  kind  of  an  amanuensis 
would  be  a  great  thing  for  an  author.  But  Mrs.  Darrah  did 
not  seem  disposed  to  follow  this  subject  any  further  in  just 
this  way. 

She  continued  to  contemplate  Salome  with  a  frank  open- 
ness. 

"  You  always  were  very  suggestive,"  she  said.  "  I'm  so 
tired  of  the  ordinary,  commonplace  human  being.  How 
long  do  you  expect  to  be  so  happy  ?" 

"  Oh,  don't  ask  me  in  such  a  tone  as  that !"  exclaimed 
Salome. 

"  Very  well.     Is  your  mother  with  you  ?" 

"  No ;  but  I  go  out  to  see  her  every  week.  She  prefers 
to  live  in  the  country." 

"  I  admire  your  mother." 

The  daughter's  face  lighted  and  her  eyes  sparkled. 

Mrs.  Darrah  changed  the  conversation  again  with  the  ab- 
ruptness which  she  seemed  to  consider  it  her  right  to  use. 

"  Perhaps  Mr.  Moore  mentioned  to  you  that  I  accident- 
ally spoke  of  a  subject  on  which  I  supposed  that  he  was 
well  informed  ?  I  see  he  did  mention  it.  I  ought  not  to 
have  been  so  careless.  That  was  your  affair,  and  his.  In- 
teresting, though,  very.  I've  made  notes  of  it.  One  never 
knows  what  one  may  want  to  use.  And  I  wished  to  ask 
you  if  anything — now  do  pardon  me,  but  I  ask  in  the  inter- 
est of  my  work — if  anything  you  have  ever  done,  any  wrong 
thing,  you  know,  causes  you  to  be  less  happy  ?  Would  you 
mind  answering  ?" 

Salome  could  not  understand  why  this  question  did  not 


WITH    MRS.   DARRAH  209 

make  her  angry.  But  there  were  a  certain  simplicity  and 
singleness  of  purpose  in  the  woman  before  her,  and  she 
had  really  been  so  kind  to  her  that  Salome  felt  no  resent- 
ment. But  she  felt  some  confusion.  She  did  not  quite 
know  how  to  answer. 

"  We  have  been  instructed,  you  remember,"  went  on  Mrs. 
Darrah,  "  that  our  consciences  make  it  impossible  for  us  to 
be  happy,  even  under  favorable  circumstances,  unless  our 
consciences  are  in  that  state  which  our  orthodox  fore- 
fathers used  to  call  '  seared.'  You  are  far  too  young  for 
that  process  to  have  been  accomplished.  But  you  are 
happy,  aren't  you  ?  Anyway,  you  have  been  happy  since 
your  marriage  ?" 

"  Yes,  yes,"  replied  Salome. 

"  And  no  moments  of  agony  because  of  some  things  you 
have  done  ?" 

"No." 

Mrs.  Darrah  reached  for  a  note-book. 

"  Please  forgive  me,  but  I  really  must  ask  if  the  thought 
of  the  fact  that — that  you  have  allowed  Mr.  Moore  to  think 
as  he  has  done  of  the  circumstances  of  his  marriage — has 
not  that  thought  made  you  miserable  ?" 

Salome's  face  was  tense,  and  it  was  paler  than  usual,  but 
she  answered  with  that  frankness  which  was  characteristic 
of  her  when  speaking  of  her  inner  self. 

"  No,  I  have  not  been  miserable  at  all,  except  in  the  rare 
moments  when  I  would  have  a  fear  that  my  husband  would 
find  out  the  truth.  It  was  better,  since  he  would  be  happier, 
and  I  also  should  be  happier,  if  he  never  knew  the  truth." 

Mrs.  Darrah's  little,  alert  face  became  yet  more  alert. 

She  began  to  write,  saying  as  she  did  so  : 

"This  is  really  charming — this  is  delightful.  The  amount 
of  it  is  that  you  don't  care  in  the  least." 

"  Oh,"  exclaimed  Salome,  eagerly,  "  I  care  a  great  deal  if 
somebody  comes  to  know  it  and  is  made  unhappy." 

"  But  if  nobody  knows,  and  nobody  is  made  unhappy  be- 
cause of  what  you  may  do  in  that  way?" 


210  OUT   OF    STEP 

"  Then  I  don't  care  anything  at  all,"  with  an  accent  of 
relief. 

"  That's  just  what  I  want  to  come  at.  How  much  would 
the  best  of  us  care  for  right,  pure  and  simple,  if  nobody 
would  ever  know  and  nobody  would  ever  be  unhappy  ?" 

Salome  leaned  forward.  She  put  out  one  hand  as  if  in 
emphasis. 

"  Oh,  Mrs.  Darrah,"  she  said,  quickly,  "  I  don't  under- 
stand why  it  is,  and  I'm  not  so  one  bit,  but  my  mother  is 
one  of  those  people  who  do  right  because  it  is  right.  And 
since  my  mother  does  so,  I  have  times  when  I  long  to  be 
able  to  do  so.  I  mean  I  used  to  have  such  times  before 
I  became  well  and  happy.  I  wonder  why  it  is,  Mrs.  Darrah, 
but  when  we  are  happy  we  seem  to  be  good  —  even  if  we 
are  not  good,  you  know." 

Salome  spoke  thus  as  if  she  were  the  first  person  who 
had  ever  puzzled  over  that  state  of  being. 

"  Of  course  if  I  hadn't  known  that  Randolph — Mr.  Moore 
— loved  me — if  I  had  not  known  it  beyond  the  shadow  of 
a  doubt,  I  couldn't  have  allowed  things  to  go  just  as  they 
did.  But  knowing  that,  why  should  I  care  too  deeply  for 
anything  else  ?  But  my  mother  cares." 

When  Salome  said  "my  mother  cares"  her  voice  trembled 
slightly  and  her  eyes  fell. 

Mrs.  Darrah  ceased  writing.  She  pressed  the  top  of  her 
pencil  to  her  lips  and  silently  contemplated  the  face  oppo- 
site her. 

"  Do  you  know  what  is  the  most  curious  thing  I  ever 
knew  ?"  she  asked,  after  a  moment. 

Salome  shook  her  head.  She  was  still  thinking  of  her 
mother. 

"  It  is  that  my  niece  doesn't  hate  you,  that  she  really  has 
an  affection  for  you.  But  still,  when  I  sit  here  and  look  at 
you,  I  can  quite  understand  that ;  whatever  you  might  do, 
people  would  always  feel,  when  in  your  presence,  that,  some- 
how, it  wasn't  the  same  thing  for  you  to — to — forgive  me 
again— to  forge  and  lie  as — " 


WITH    MRS.  DARRAH  211 

"  Don't !— don't !" 

Salome's  eyes  dilated  painfully,  then  she  suddenly  cov- 
ered her  face  with  her  hands. 

"  You  don't  like  the  sound  of  those  words  ?"  asked  Mrs. 
Darrah. 

"  No." 

"  But  the  deeds  themselves — " 

Mrs.  Darrah  paused.  She  held  her  pencil  poised  over  a 
page  of  her  note-book.  She  was  telling  herself  that  here 
was  such  an  abundance  of  material  that  she  was  embar- 
rassed by  it.  The  subject  of  general  ethics  seemed  yet 
more  vast  than  it  had  hitherto  seemed.  She  almost  be- 
lieved that  she  would  be  obliged  to  introduce  two  or  three 
more  characters  into  her  novel ;  and  she  hardly  knew 
whether  even  that  change  would  avail. 

"What  I  want  to  discover,"  began  Mrs.  Darrah  again, 
"  is  why  I'm  not  shocked  and  horrified  by  you?  Mrs.  Moore. 
I  really  am  shocked  and  horrified  by  falsehood  and  forgery ; 
and  falsehood  and  forgery  are  the  same  things  at  all  times. 
Of  course,  I  know  about  extenuating  circumstances  and  all 
that  kind  of  talk.  I've  been  through  those  things  a  thou- 
sand times ;  it's  like  a  horse  on  a  tread-mill ;  you  keep  go- 
ing and  you  never  get  anywhere.  Sometimes  I'm  not  sure 
of  anything  definite.  Now  I  should  like  to  ask  some  one 
who  could  tell  me  why  you  should  invariably  give  the  im- 
pression of  one  to  whom  guilt  of  any  kind  must  be  utterly 
alien.  Don't  shrink  so.  I  know  I'm  hurting  you,  but  think 
of  general  ethics ;  think  I'm  only  considering  you  as  mate- 
rial, and  you  won't  care  in  the  least.  Can't  you  throw  any 
light  on  this  subject,  Mrs.  Moore  ?" 

Salome  did  not  try  to  reply  in  words ;  she  only  shook  her 
head  distressfully.  She  was  beginning  to  feel  resentful, 
but  she  endeavored  to  stifle  her  resentment.  She  had  a 
feeling  that  this  kind  of  suffering  was  a  sort  of  penance  for 
what  she  had  done,  and  that  she  must  endure  it. 

"  Your  atmosphere,"  said  Mrs.  Darrah,  "  is  one  of  special 
innocence.  Now,  how  do  you  account  for  that  ?" 


212  OUT   OF   STEP 

The  authoress,  who  was  particularly  indolent  as  regarded 
bodily  movement,  now  threw  aside  her  shawls,  rose,  and 
began  walking  about  the  room. 

Salome  had  flung  herself  back  in  her  chair  with  a  despair- 
ing movement.  She  was  blessed  with  a  sweet  and  forbear- 
ing temper,  but  she  knew  that  her  indignation  could  not  be 
restrained  much  longer,  even  though  she  might  view  this 
hour  as  a  penance.  But  then  this  woman  had  been  very 
kind  when  kindness  and  consideration  were  worth  a  good 
deal. 

"  About  your  marriage,"  suddenly  said  Mrs.  Darrah,  paus- 
ing and  gazing  at  her  guest.  "  Of  course  you  knew  that 
Mr.  Moore  would  learn  all  about  it  some  time.  Several 
people  knew  it.  Some  one  was  sure  to  tell  him  sooner  or 
later.  I'm  sorry  that  I  happened  to  be  the  one.  You  ought 
to  have  told  him  yourself." 

"I  thought — "  began  Salome.  Then  she  broke  off  to 
say  with  some  vehemence,  "  but  why  should  I  tell  you  what 
I  thought  ?" 

"Tell  me.  You  certainly  know  I  am  your  friend;  and, 
contrary  to  the  dictates  of  my  judgment,  I  love  you.  You 
must  have  a  great  personal  magnetism ;  but  that  doesn't 
account  in  the  least  for  that  wonderful  impression  of  inno- 
cence which  you  give." 

"  Oh,  Mrs.  Darrah,  won't  you  stop  talking  about  me  ?  I 
can't  bear  it  any  longer ;  indeed  I  cannot !" 

Salome  rose  and  took  her  fur  wrap  and  began  impetuously 
to  put  it  on,  saying  as  she  did  so  : 

"  I  haven't  forgotten  how  good  you've  been  to  me,  but 
this  is  more  than  I  can  endure." 

Mrs.  Darrah  drew  the  garment  from  her  guest  with  a 
gentle  motion.  She  was  smiling  in  that  whimsical  way  she 
had. 

"I'm  afraid  you  are  not  considering  the  light  I  wish  to 
shed  upon  the  world  on  the  topic  of  ethics,  and  you  don't 
remember  how  much  the  world  needs  that  light.  But  never 
mind.  You  are  not  going  to  leave  me  now.  I'll  put  up  my 


WITH    MRS.   DARRAH 


213 


note-books.  Surely  you  can't  ask  me  to  do  anything  more 
than  that  ?  Now  let  us  gossip." 

Mrs.  Darrah  placed  her  hand  for  an  instant  caressingly 
on  Salome's  shoulder,  then  she  bade  her  sit  down  again ; 
and  presently  she  said  : 

"  Tell  me  about  your  mother." 

Salome  had  resumed  her  seat.  She  seemed  weary  and 
dispirited,  but  she  was  plainly  making  an  effort  to  overcome 
that  state  of  body  and  mind.  It  is  usually  depressing  to 
have  a  glimpse  of  the  precise  way  in  which  other  people 
look  at  us.  She  felt  that  she  had  to-night  had  such  a 
glimpse. 

"There  is  nothing  to  tell  about  my  mother,"  she  an- 
swered. 

"  She  is  out  there  in  the  country  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Alone?" 

"  Yes ;  she  preferred  to  be  alone.  We  wanted  her  to 
stay  with  us,  but  she  said  she  would  rather  live  in  the 
country.  And  she  said — "  Salome  hesitated ;  there  was  a 
quiver  about  her  mouth  as  she  finished — "  she  said  that  she 
was  sure  I  should  be  happier  without  her." 

"  She  was  right,"  decisively  remarked  Mrs.  Darrah. 

"  She  was  wrong,"  as  decisively  returned  Salome.  "  I  am 
never  happier  without  my  mother." 

"  Dear  child !"  murmured  the  other  in  a  voice  much  less 
dry  than  her  usual  tone.  "  But  she  must  be  wretched  with- 
out you." 

"  Mrs.  Darrah,"  said  Salome,  piteously,  "  I  can't  bear  to 
be  hurt  any  more  this  afternoon.  It  seems  to  me  that  I  am 
always  thinking  of  her.  We  are  going  South  early  next 
fall,  and  she  has  promised  to  go  with  us.  She  doesn't  like 
the  South,  but  I'm  sure  she  will  be  happy  with  us  —  I'm 
sure  of  it,"  repeating  the  words  fervently,  "  and  this  sum- 
mer that  is  coming  we  mean  to  spend  with  her  out  there  in 
the  country  where  I  was  born.  Randolph  —  Mr.  Moore  — 
loves  the  country  as  well  as  I  do.  But  how  I  am  talking 


214  OUT   OF   STEP 

of  my  own  affairs.  You  shouldn't  let  me  do  it,  Mrs. 
Darrah." 

"  Yes,  I  should  let  you  do  it  as  long  as  you  interest  me," 
was  the  reply. 

The  two  chatted  on  of  this  and  that,  and  Salome  re- 
covered her  spirits.  The  conversation  she  had  had  with 
her  husband  had  only  depressed  her  for  the  time ;  the  buoy- 
ant reaction  from  it  had  not  yet  subsided ;  and  besides, 
she  was  still  absolutely  sure  of  his  love  and  of  her  power 
to  make  him  happy.  While  she  could  be  sure  in  that  way 
it  was  simply  impossible  for  her  to  be  miserable. 

Perhaps  he  was  by  this  time  back  in  their  rooms — he  was 
reading  the  note  she  had  left  for  him — he  would  soon  come 
to  the  Vendome.  Her  face  grew  radiant  as  the  moments 
went  on.  She  listened  to  her  hostess,  who,  when  she 
chose  to  talk,  had  a  keen  wit  and  a  satirical  way  of  putting 
things. 

In  a  pause  in  the  conversation  Salome  said  : 

"  You  spoke  of  Miss  Nunally.     Is  she  well  and  happy  ?" 

In  spite  of  herself  she  listened  with  a  strained  attention 
for  the  reply.  She  would  hardly  have  been  a  woman  if 
there  were  not  some  bitterness  for  her  in  the  thought  of 
Miss  Nunally.  But  she  did  not  now  dwell  upon  bitter 
thoughts.  Happiness  crowded  all  unhappiness  out  of  her 
heart. 

"  Oh,"  said  Mrs.  Darrah,  "  Portia  is  much  as  usual.  She 
says  that  when  she  is  a  little  older  she  is  going  to  join 
some  kind  of  a  sisterhood  and  devote  herself  to  good 
works.  Portia  is  one  who  must  have  her  fling.  I  advise 
her  to  be  quite  sure  that  she  has  had  it  before  she  joins 
that  sisterhood ;  otherwise  " — with  a  short  laugh,  "  I  should 
be  sorry  for  that  institution." 

"  She  will  marry,"  said  Salome. 

"  Yes,  eventually.  Such  a  girl  is  sure  to  marry ;  but  she 
really  has  no  more  vocation  towards  marriage  than  towards 
being  a  hermit.  A  hundred  times  I've  thought  I  would 
wash  my  hands  of  Portia,  but  I  can't— I  like  the  girl ;  still, 


WITH    MRS.   DARRAH  215 

I  should  be  in  despair  if  I  were  in  any  way  dependent  on 
her  for  happiness." 

While  she  talked  Mrs.  Darrah  did  not  try  to  conceal  the 
fact  that  she  was  watching  her  guest  continually.  Suddenly 
she  exclaimed  : 

"  Somehow  you  are  really  putting  me  in  good  spirits. 
That  is  odd,  for  I  have  noticed  that  people  who  are  happy 
usually  have  a  depressing  effect  upon  me — force  of  con- 
trast, I  suppose.  It's  a  long  time  since  I  was  happy.  But 
I'm  generally  comfortable.  Happiness  makes  one  so  egc^J 
tistic  that  one  is  insufferable.  Now  with  you  it  is  different. 
I  may  say  I  quite  bask  in  your  presence.  Do  you  think 
you  could  pardon  me  if  I  take  my  note -book  again? 
Thanks.  '  You  see,  ideas  are  so  rare  with  the  best  of  us 
that  when  I  think  I  have  one  I  must  make  haste  to  get  it 
on  paper.  I  am  sure  to  forget  my  best  things  if  I  don't 
fasten  them  directly." 

Salome,  as  her  hostess  wrote,  strolled  around  the  room 
looking  at  the  pictures  and  the  books.  It  was  Mrs.  Darrah's 
custom  to  take  about  with  her  two  or  three  pictures  and  a 
box  of  books,  and  little  things  which  her  maid  was  instruct- 
ed to  arrange  immediately  they  had  secured  rooms  at  a 
hotel.  She  said  the  average  pictures  in  apartments  in  the 
best  hotel  in  the  world  were  enough  to  drive  one  frantic  ; 
and  as  she  spent  a  great  deal  of  time  in  such  places,  she  could 
not  afford  to  be  driven  frantic  so  often  and  so  continuously. 

Now,  after  writing  a  few  lines,  Mrs.  Darrah  raised  her 
eyes  and  fixed  them  upon  Salome  as  she  walked  slowly, 
stopping  before  the  pictures.  A  phrase  from  a  French 
writer  came  into  the  woman's  mind : 

"  Everything  is  involuntary  with  her ;  that  is  the  secret 
of  her  charm." 

"Yes,"  thought  Mrs.  Darrah,  "(anything  studied  may 
attract,  but  it  is  the  involuntary  that  holds  one.'7!  And  she 
added  to  herself  with  some  cynicism,  "of  course,  Moore 
loves  her ;  and  he  will  always  love  her,  or1  as  long  as  it  is 
in  the  male  human  nature  to  love  one  woman/) 


2l6  OUT   OF   STEP 

Salome  was  standing  with  her  hands  clasped  behind  her 
before  a  canvas  on  the  wall ;  the  full  radiance  of  the  light 
was  on  her  figure.  Mrs.  Darrah's  wizened  face  beamed  as 
it  was  turned  towards  her. 

"  My  dear  child,"  she  said,  "  do  you  ever  read  Cher- 
buliez  ?" 

" No," answered  Salome;  "  to  tell  the  truth,"  hesitatingly, 
"  I  don't  think  I  read  very  much." 

"  Oh,  well,  it  isn't  necessary  for  you  to  read — you  are 
living.  I  was  going  to  quote  from  Cherbuliez.  In  looking 
at  you  just  now  I  am  '  tempted  to  accompany  you  on  the 
harp.'  Isn't  that  pretty  ?  Now  I  understand  precisely  what 
he  meant  by  that  phrase." 

"  Oh,  Mrs.  Darrah !"  exclaimed  Salome  with  a  laugh.  She 
was  putting  from  her  the  thought  of  how  this  woman  had 
wounded  her  a  few  moments  ago.  It  was  so  easy  to  put 
from  her  everything  disagreeable ;  for  did  she  not  love, 
and  was  she  not  beloved  ? 

Salome  continued  to  look  at  the  picture — a  bit  of  upland 
pasture  where  some  savins  grew,  and  where  three  crows  were 
flying.  There  was  no  cloud  in  the  sky,  which  was  a  mid- 
summer sky,  the  sky  of  an  intensely  hot  day.  This  drew 
Salome  and  held  her. 

"  The  man  who  painted  this,"  she  said,  "  knew  what 
midsummer  is,  what  heat  and  brilliant  light  are.  I  wish  I 
had  something  like  this  to  look  at  in  those  horrible  chilling 
days  when  I  am  left  alone." 

Mrs.  Darrah  glanced  at  the  wall. 

"That?"  she  responded,  "that  isn't  a  man's  work  ;  that 
is  one  of  Mrs.  Bradford's." 

Salome  turned  quickly.  She  was  not  much  more  versed 
in  art  than  in  literature  ;  but  she  had  a  natural  good  taste 
which  might  be  depended  upon  in  a  selection. 

"Mrs.  Bradford?"  she  repeated,  "why,  that  must  be  my 
Mrs.  Bradford  !" 

Her  eyes  glowed  with  pleasure. 

"  Have  you  a  Mrs.  Bradford,  then  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Darrah. 


WITH    MRS.   DARRAH  217 

"  I  didn't  know  you  knew  her.  I  became  acquainted  with 
her  work  two  or  three  years  ago,  and  I  liked  it.  It  isn't 
pretentious ;  it's  true ;  and  it  has  feeling.  There  is  no 
work  in  the  world  without  feeling  that  is  worth  a  rap. 
You've  heard  that  there  are  only  two  kinds  of  people, 
haven't  you,  Mrs.  Moore  ?" 

"  No,"  said  Salome,  still  standing  before  the  picture  and 
gazing  at  it  with  even  greater  interest.  "  What  are  the  two 
kinds  ?" 

"'The  people  who  kindle  and  the  people  who  don't'; 
I'm  quoting  again.  Now  Mrs.  Bradford  is  one  of  those 
who  kindle.  I  have  met  her  a  few  times  this  winter.  I'm 
glad  you  know  her.  'As  one  grows  older  there  are  fewer 
and  fewer  men  and  women  one  cares  to  know.  They  are 
mostly  bores ;  and  you  become  a  bore  yourself,  only  you 
can  forgive  in  yourself  what  you  can't  forgive  in  another.  I 
see  by  your  face  that  you  like  Mrs.  Bradford." 

"  Oh  yes,  so  much.     She  wanted  me  to — " 

Here  Salome  paused,  thinking  it  would  seem  egotistical 
to  go  on.  But  Mrs.  Darrah  insisted. 

"  Don't  break  off  in  the  middle  of  a  sentence,"  she  ex- 
claimed. "  It  must  be  interesting  to  know  what  Mrs.  Brad- 
ford wanted  of  you." 

"  She  said  she  wished  to  paint  my  portrait,"  was  the 
answer,  given  with  a  little  shyness. 

"  Ah !  I  like  that.  I  was  not  mistaken  in  Mrs,  Bradford. 
She  is  like  me,  she  knows — she  knows." 

It  did  not  seem  necessary  for  Mrs.  Darrah  to  explain  what 
she  and  Mrs.  Bradford  knew. 

Salome  was  not  sure  but  that  she  ought  to  be  sorry  she 
had  told  this.  She  reflected  that  even  her  husband  did  not 
yet  know  it.  Their  talk  upon  another  topic  had  been  so 
absorbing  that  she  had  not  spoken  of  this,  and  when  their 
mood  had  changed  at  lunch  she  had  decided  that  there  was 
not  time ;  she  did  not  like  to  be  hurried. 

"  Has  she  begun  it  ?"  now  inquired  Mrs.  Darrah  with 
great  interest. 


2l8  OUT   OF    STEP 

"  Yes,  this  morning." 

"  I  wish  I  might  see  her  at  work.  It  is  so  interesting  to 
see  an  artist  at  work.  But  you  will  be  starving  by  this 
time.  Let  us  go  down  to  dinner.  I  take  my  dinner  with 
the  great  herd  occasionally.  .The  great  herd  is  depressing, 
but  then  it  is  depressing  also  to  feed  alone.  In  point  of 
fact  nearly  everything  is  lowering  in  some  way.  I  hope  you 
told  Mr.  Moore  to  come  to  fetch  you.  Yes,  that's  right. 
Now  he  is  one  of  those  who  don't  carry  about  a  lowering 
temperature  with  them.  He  is  essentially  genial.  He  is 
not  what  you  called  keyed  up  to  too  high  a  pitch,  and  he 
is  not  stolid." 

"  Oh  no  ;  he  isn't  stolid,"  Salome  hastened  to  say ;  and 
then  she  wished  that  she  had  not  spoken,  for  Mrs.  Darrah 
smiled  at  her  quizzically. 

The  two  were  at  the  table  now.  Salome  had  ceased  to 
be  awed  by  what  had  first  seemed  to  her  the  vastness  of 
hotel  service,  and  the  strange  indifference  of  everybody  to 
everybody  else.  She  had  surrounded  herself  with  her  own 
atmosphere  of  love  and  happiness,  and  was  now  placidly 
sorry  that  there  was  no  one  else  in  the  world  so  happy  as 
she  and  her  husband  were.  Notwithstanding  the  suffering 
of  a  few  hours  before,  Salome  had  a  conviction  that  their 
happiness  was  absolutely  invincible.  It  must  be,  she  told 
herself,  as  she  went  about  day  after  day,  and  now  as  she 
sat  by  Mrs.  Darrah  in  the  big  dining-room,  she  leaned 
upon  that  happiness  as  upon  a  stable  bulwark ;  she  was 
always  feeling  that  "  impassioned  calm,"  that  subtlety  of 
"  tranquil  passion  "  which,  as  some  one  has  said,  is  the 
perfection  of  happiness,  and  which  cannot  be  known  out- 
side of  mutual  love.  That  is  what  Salome  believed.  As 
she  glanced  at  the  elderly,  shrunken  woman  by  her  side  she 
wondered  if  Mrs.  Darrah  knew  this  great  truth  about  love. 
There  were  so  many  things  to  know  about  love  which 
Salome  was  sure  were  not  generally  known.  She  was  con- 
vinced that  she  had  discovered  a  great  many  facts  bearing 
upon  this  subject.  Of  course,  other  people  had  been  happy 


WITH    MRS.   DARRAH  2 19 

in  a  degree  ;  other  people  had  thought  they  loved,  and 
doubtless  had  done  so.  Nevertheless,  it  remained  true  that 
no  two  in  the  world  could  ever  have  known  the  extreme 
felicity  which  she  and  her  husband  knew,  and  were  to  con- 
tinue to  know  as  the  years  went  by. 

Thinking  and  feeling  thus,  Salome  listened  to  Mrs.  Dar- 
rah's  talk  as  she  sat  beside  her  and  replied  gayly.  She  was 
watching  the  passing  of  the  time,  for  every  moment  brought 
nearer  the  coming  of  Moore.  She  could  not  deny  but  that 
in  the  bottom  of  her  heart  there  was  a  grain  of  anxiety  as 
to  his  face  and  manner.  Would  that  talk  have  left  even  the 
slightest  cloud  ? 

When  he  did  appear  even  this  suspicion  of  anxiety  van- 
ished, for  Moore  came  with  poorly  disguised  eagerness  after 
reading  his  wife's  note. 

As  he  allowed  himself  an  instant's  glance  into  Salome's 
eyes,  his  spirits  bubbled  up  with  joyous  effervescence.  The 
past  was  past,  in  the  future,  of  course,  Salome  would  grad- 
ually be  impressed  by  his  influence,  and  besides  there 
would  be  no  temptation  for  her  to — he  hesitated  in  his 
thoughts,  and  finally  he  ended  his  sentence  with  the  phrase 
"  to  prevaricate."  Besides,  all  women  prevaricated.  Per- 
haps it  was  not  in  the  feminine  nature  to  have  any  real 
sense  of  the  truth.  That  is,  it  was  not  a  characteristic  of 
the  feminine  nature. 

About  that  forgery  now,  it  was  plain  enough  that  she  had 
no  "  realizing  sense."  Yes,  indeed,  things  would  come  out 
all  right.  He  had  only  to  love  and  to  be  patient.  And  he 
felt  a  boundless  capacity  both  for  loving  and  for  patience. 

It  was  when  the  two  were  walking  homeward  in  the  clear 
cold  of  the  evening  that  Salome  told  her  companion  of  her 
meeting  with  Mrs.  Bradford,  and  of  the  first  sitting  for  the 
portrait.  It  seemed  to  her  that  they  had  never  been  so 
happy,  never  so  thoroughly  in  sympathy  as  now,  as  they 
walked  under  the  street-lamps.  There  was  an  elation  of 
which  Salome  was  keenly  conscious.  It  would  have  been 
impossible  that  she  should  not,  sometimes,  have  thought 


220  OUT   OF   STEP 

with  dread  of  the  time  when  Moore  would  learn  all  the  in- 
cidents connected  with  their  marriage.  Now  he  knew,  and 
he  still  loved  her.  They  were  still  one. 

She  hung  upon  his  arm.  She  talked  rapidly  of  Mrs. 
Bradford,  and  of  how  Mrs.  Bradford  was  the  kind  of  woman 
she  liked.  And  permission  had  been  given  for  Moore  to 
visit  the  studio  in  the  morning,  and — 

"Ah!  there  she  is  now,  in  that  carriage  —  right  here. 
The  woman  in  the  white  fur-cloak.  She  sees  me.  Ran- 
dolph, don't  you  like  her  smile  ?  Why,  she  is  going  to  speak 
to  me." 

The  carriage  stopped,  and  Mrs.  Bradford,  evidently  in 
opera  dress,  leaned  forward  and  made  a  gesture  which 
Salome  obeyed,  going  to  the  edge  of  the  sidewalk,  Moore 
remaining  a  pace  in  the  rear. 

"  I  was  going  to  send  a  message  to  you,  Mrs.  Moore," 
said  Mrs.  Bradford,  "  but  as  I  saw  you  I  couldn't  resist  the 
wish  to  stop  you.  Don't  come  to-morrow  morning ;  I  shall 
be  away ;  but  come  the  day  after." 

"  Yes,"  said  Salome. 

Mrs.  Bradford  still  remained  leaning  forward,  slightly, 
looking  at  Salome  and  smiling  as  one  smiles,  involuntarily, 
at  sight  of  a  radiant  face.  Directly,  however,  she  drew 
back.  The  carriage  went  on.  Salome  gazed  after  it  an 
instant,  drew  a  long  breath,  then  looked  up  at  her  husband 
as  if  for  his  approval  of  this  woman  who  had  just  left  them. 

"  You  see  I'm  quite  proud  that  she  wants  to  paint  me," 
she  said. 

"  I  should  think  you  would  be,"  was  the  response.  "  As 
for  me,  I  should  be  set  up  entirely  out  of  reach  of  common 
mortals  if  she  wanted  to  paint  me.  Perhaps  mine  isn't  the 
kind  of  beauty  that  takes  her  fancy;  and  perhaps  she 
doesn't  paint  men." 

Moore  stroked  his  beard  and  laughed.  He  also  was  in 
what  he  would  have  called  in  another  "  dangerously  good 
spirits."  He  could  not  understand  it  in  the  least. 

Later,  when  he  woke  in  the  night  and  lay  with  wide-open 


WITH    MRS.    DARRAH  221 

eyes,  apparently  not  thinking  of  anything,  there  suddenly 
sprang  at  him  the  words  : 

"  Oh,  I  wish  she  cared  for  the  truth  !" 

Why  should  those  words  have  come  to  him  now  when  he 
had  been  so  happy  a  few  hours  before  ?  And  then  there 
rose  in  his  mind  a  vivid  picture  of  Salome's  face  as  it  had 
been  that  time  when  he  and  she  were  walking  on  the  Flori- 
da sands,  and  she  had  told  him  that  he  could  not  respect 
her.  Respect  her  ?  He  must  respect  her.  He  must. 

He  lay  utterly  still,  his  hands  clinched,  a  perspiration 
coming  on  his  forehead.  How  was  he  going  to  know  when 
she  was  telling  him  the  truth  ?  How  could  he  expect  her 
to  tell  him  the  truth  always?  And  what  should  he  do  if 
he  discovered  another  falsehood  ?  Now  and  then,  as  time 
went  on,  should  he  detect  her  in  a  lie?  He  shuddered. 
Even  a  man  whose  life  is  not  upon  as  high  a  plane  as 
Moore  strove  that  his  should  be,  could  not  help  a  strong 
repulsion  at  the  thought  that  his  wife  was  not  truthful. 
Whatever  he  is  himself,  a  man  desires  that  his  wife  shall 
be  upright. 

It  is  not  when  one  wakes  in  the  darkness,  that  one  has 
hopeful  views  of  any  trouble  or  perplexity. 

Moore's  thoughts  ran  on  in  painful  confusion  until  at 
last  he  fell  asleep  again.  He  was  surprised  that  in  the 
morning  he  should  be  able  to  regard  that  hour  of  darkness 
almost  as  if  it  had  been  a  dream.  Only  as  the  days  went 
by,  there  were  moments  when  it  seemed  as  if  that  hour  had 
left  a  shadow.  But  as  yet  he  could  easily  escape  the  shad- 
ow. It  could  hardly  come  when  Salome  was  near  him,  and 
he  could  turn  and  look  in  her  face. 


XIV 

PORTRAIT    PAINTING 

SALOME  had  been  three  times  to  sit  for  her  portrait,  but 
it  had  happened  that  her  husband  had  not  been  able  to 
accompany  her  until  this  fourth  visit,  as  he  had  been  called 
away  on  business,  which  had  detained  him  more  than  a 
week. 

It  was  never  difficult  of  late  for  Salome  to  kill  time,  even 
though  Moore  were  away.  /How  could  time  lag  since,  wher- 
ever he  was,  Moore's  love  was  hers  ?  She  would  write  at 
odd  moments  every  day  to  him,  and  the  writing  brought 
him  near.  She  wrote  a  thousand  nothings,  and  she  uncon- 
sciously infused  into  these  nothings  so  much  of  herself  and 
her  love  that  Moore,  reading  these  letters  hundreds  of  miles 
away,  felt  his  heart  glow  with  a  happiness  that  was  yet  new 
enough  and  perfect  enough  to  seem  utterly  mysterious — to 
seem,  indeed,  as  if  it  were  a  miraculous  gift  from  heaven. 

Perfect  ?  Well,  since  these  two  were  human  there  must 
be  some  flaw.  But  the  young  man  was  thus  far  able  to 
thrust  from  him  the  greater  part  of  the  time  any  remem- 
brance of  a  flaw.  Occasionally  he  would  think  that  he 
must  bear  with  Salome's  faults,  as  she  would  have  to  bear 
—  with  his.  And  when  he  decided  thus,  the  after -thought 
would  invariably  present  itself :  the  deep  longing  that  this 
failing  might  have  been  almost  any  other  failing.  He  often 
recalled  Mrs.  Gerry's  assertion  that  "truth  was  the  founda- 
tion of  everything." 

At  such  times,  as  the  body  writhes  in  pain,  so  Moore's 
soul  would  writhe.  Still  he  was  young  and  profoundly  in 
love,  and  he  had  great  faith  nearly  always  in  his  power  to 
influence  Salome. 


PORTRAIT    PAINTING  223 

On  the  morning  of  his  return  his  mind  was  very  far  from 
misgivings  of  any  kind.  Salome  was  not  expecting  him  until 
the  evening ;  she  was  just  starting  for  Mrs.  Bradford's  stu- 
dio, and  she  only  waited  for  her  husband  to  make  himself 
presentable  after  his  journey,  so  that  he  might  accompany 
her.  Then  the  two  set  forth.  The  March  winds  swept 
fiercely  over  the  Common,  and  people  hurried  on  with  bent 
heads  and  red  faces.  Salome's  furs  rose  high  about  her 
neck,  and  framed  her  head  as  in  a  picture.  The  clear  glow 
of  her  eyes  was  beautiful  to  see.  Looking  into  those  eyes, 
one  would  say  the  owner  of  them  must  be  an  incarnation 
of  truth. 

"I've  been  dreaming  and  dreaming  since  you've  been 
away,"  she  was  saying  as  they  reached  Boylston  Street  and 
were  a  little  sheltered  from  the  breeze,  "and  always  the 
same  dream ;  that  is,  almost  the  same.  It  wasn't  a  bad 
dream,  only  somehow  I  became  so  tired  of  it,  and  I  wanted 
you  to  assure  me  that  it  didn't  mean  anything.  I  had  a 
great  mind  to  tell  it  to  Mrs.  Bradford,  but  I  didn't  quite 
dare,  and  then  when  she  gets  that  palette  on  her  thumb  I'm 
not  really  sure  that  she  will  hear  me  if  I  do  say  anything." 

"  Oh,  is  she  like  that  ?"  asked  Moore,  who  did  not  think 
much  of  the  dream,  and  who  had  thought  curiously  of  Mrs. 
Bradford. 

"  You  need  not  say  '  like  that '  in  such  a  tone,"  was  the 
retort.  "  What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  I  mean  I  hope  she  is  something  more  than  a  machine 
that  can  paint,"  said  Moore.  "Now,  do  you  really  sup- 
pose," in  a  confidential  tone,  "  that  your  artist-woman  loves 
her  husband  ?  You  see,"  with  a  laugh,  "  that's  my  test.  I 
shall  not  approve  of  her  if  she  is — " 

"  You  just  wait,"  interrupted  Salome.  "  If,  when  you  see 
her,  you  think  that  kind  of  a  woman  would  marry  without 
love,  why,  you  ask  her." 

"  No  doubt  I  shall  ask  her,"  answered  Moore,  "  and  no 
doubt  she  will  confide  in  me.  But  here  we  are." 

The  two  were  ushered  directly  into  the  little  room  in 


224  OUT   OF   STEP 

the  rear,  which  was  the  studio.  The  artist  was  alone,  and 
she  came  forward  to  greet  her  visitors.  She  held  Salome's 
hand  a  moment  longer  than  was  necessary  for  mere  greet- 
ing; then  her  glance  was  given  to  the  tall  figure  be- 
hind. 

"  So  you  have  brought  him,"  she  said  to  Salome,  "  and  I 
have  known  all  along  that  he  will  be  my  most  arbitrary 
critic." 

"  I  wanted  Mr.  Moore  to  know  you,"  said  Salome,  in  her 
happy  voice.  "  He  says  I've  been  so  vain  since  you  began 
to  paint  my  portrait  that  I  am  quite  insufferable." 

Moore,  glancing  at  the  mistress  of  the  studio  as  he  bowed 
to  her,  met  her  eyes,  and  instantly  felt  at  his  best.  His 
spirits  had  been  high  as  he  had  walked  along,  gayly  breast- 
ing the  buffeting  wind  with  his  wife  by  his  side ;  now  they 
were  higher  still.  He  was  immediately  conscious  of  a  de- 
cided gratitude  that  his  wife  should  know  such  a  woman  as 
this.  He  did  not  quite  understand  why  she  seemed  to  him 
any  more  than  a  quiet,  well-bred  woman,  with  a  refined  and 
extremely  suggestive  face. 

"  I'm  glad  you  have  come,  Mr.  Moore,"  said  Mrs.  Brad- 
ford, with  unaffected  warmth.  "  And  now  you  will  tell  me 
precisely  what  you  think  of  this.". 

As  she  finished  speaking  she  walked  towards  the  easel. 
Moore  followed,  having,  as  he  afterwards  said,  his  own  ideas 
as  to  what  women  could  do  at  portrait  painting. 

His  face  kindled  instantly  in  a  way  that  invariably  made 
the  face  of  anyone  looking  at  him  kindle  also.  Mrs.  Brad- 
ford was  cheered  by  this  look,  and  her  smile  grew  still 
more  intimate  and  cordial. 

"  I  had  no  idea  it  would  be  like  this,"  he  exclaimed. 

Perhaps  one  reason  why  people  found  Moore  so  likable 
was  that  he  let  his  heart  speak  out  when  his  heart  held  no 
bitterness. 

Mrs.  Bradford  flushed  with  pleasure. 

"  Like  what  ?"  she  asked.     "  I  hope  it  is  like  Mrs.  Moore." 

"  Yes,  yes  ;  it  is,"  he  answered. 


PORTRAIT    PAINTING  225 

He  glanced  swiftly  and  radiantly  at  Salome,  then  back  to 
the  canvas. 

"  When  it  is  done,  do  you  know  what  I  am  going  to  call 
it?" 

As  the  artist  put  this  question  to  Moore  she  took  a  brush, 
touched  it  to  her  palette,  advanced  and  drew  the  brush 
softly  along  a  part  of  the  background. 

The  portrait  was  only  a  head,  the  bust  shading  off  indef- 
initely. There  were  absolutely  no  adjuncts  to  distract  at- 
tention or  to  modify  judgment. 

"  Call  it  ?"  said  Moore,  absently.  He  was  gazing  with 
his  soul  in  his  face  at  the  canvas. 

Mrs.  Bradford  liked  him  more  and  more. 

"  I  could  imagine  that  a  man  or  woman  in  trouble  might 
go  to  him,"  she  was  thinking.  "The  mere  going  to  him 
would  be  a  help ;  the  mere  being  in  contact  with  that  cour- 
teous, sweet  strength." 

"  Yes,"  she  repeated  ;  "  if  you  will  give  me  a  name  bet- 
ter than  the  one  I  have  chosen  I  will  take  your  name  for 
this." 

She  gazed  at  the  head  contemplatively. 

"  It  is  the  face  of  a  happy  woman,"  said  Moore,  in  a  low 
voice. 

"  That  is  why  I  shall  call  it '  Happiness,1  "  answered  Mrs. 
Bradford. 

She  turned  towards  Salome,  who  was  somewhat  behind 
the  two. 

"  Do  I  really  and  truly  look  like  that  ?" 

As  she  put  the  question,  Salome  seemed  to  shrink  back 
still  more. 

"I  don't  mean  because  it's  beautiful,  you  know,"  she 
went  on,  hastily,  "  for  it  isn't  that.  I  mean — "  she  hesi- 
tated, then  her  eyes  brightened  in  a  way  they  had,  and 
which  had  a  still  more  striking  effect  because  she  did  not 
blush.  "It  is  because,"  still  more  rapidly,  "this  face  is 
as  if  heaven  itself  might  envy  the  original  of  it." 

As  Salome  spoke  thus,  Moore  turned  towards  her  with 


226  OUT   OF   STEP 

an  impetuous  movement,  but  he  instantly  restrained  him- 
self, and  resumed  his  study  of  the  portrait. 

Mrs.  Bradford  was  slightly  aloof  from  the  two.  She  was 
gazing  at  Salome,  and  in  her  gaze  was  something  of  that 
pathetic  prevision  which  is  so  frequently  awakened  by  the 
sight  of  happiness. 

"  Mrs.  Moore  is  too  often  in  the  superlative  degree,"  now 
said  Moore,  glancing  at  his  hostess,  and  trying  to  speak 
deprecatingly. 

"  And  is  it  only  the  positive  degree  that  you  care  for  in 
her?"  asked  Mrs.  Bradford.  "It  is  those  who  know  about 
the  superlative  who  get  loved  the  most  and  who  love  the 
most." 

She  spoke  as  if  she  were  stating  a  simple  fact. 

"  But  do  you  never  think,"  responded  Moore,  "  of  what 
some  one  has  said,  that  there's  only  just  so  much  happiness 
for  every  one  in  this  world  ;  and  that  you  are  often  allowed 
a  choice,  as  if  your  life  were  bread  and  happiness  were 
butter  ?  You  can  spread  the  butter  very  -thin,  and  have  a 
semblance  of  delight  right  along,  or  you  can  do  just  the 
other  way,  and  have  nothing  save  butterless  crusts  after  a 
while." 

"  Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Bradford,  "  I  often  think  of  that ;  but 
temperament  generally  forbids  freedom  of  choice." 

No  one  made  any  reply  to  this  response,  and  the  three 
stood  in  silence  looking  at  the  canvas.  At  last  the  artist 
said,  addressing  Moore : 

"  I  want  to  ask  you  if  you  think  I  have  caught  what  I 
call  the  Puritan  look  of  the  face  ?  That  has  been  the  puz- 
zling thing  all  the  time.  I  think  that  is  what  drew  my 
attention  at  the  very  first ;  that  doesn't  usually  accompany 
the — well,  I  will  call  it  the  other  expression.  Mrs.  Moore," 
smiling  at  Salome,  "  you  must  pardon  me  if  I  discuss  you 
now  as  if  you  were  a  model.  But  you  see  your  husband's 
opinion  must  be  very  valuable,  and  I  am  more  interested 
in  this  portrait  than  in  anything  I've  undertaken  for  a 
long  time.  I  can  hardly  thank  you  enough  for  the  oppor- 


PORTRAIT    PAINTING  227 

tunity  to  try  to  put  you  on  canvas.  It's  more  than  painting. 
It's  a  study  in  psychology.  Now  please  don't  object  to  be- 
ing made  a  study  in  psychology." 

There  was  such  a  warm  tone  in  Mrs.  Bradford's  voice  that 
Salome  could  not  quite  make  up  her  mind  to  put  her  objec- 
tion in  words.  Nevertheless,  she  felt  that  objection.  Her 
pride  and  pleasure  in  the  portrait  were  now  somewhat  mixed 
with  something  which  she  could  not  well  define. 

Why  did  some  people  think  they  must  study  her  ?  And 
what  was  there  strange  in  her  face  ?  There  was  Mrs.  Dar- 
rah  with  her  note-book,  and  here  was  Mrs.  Bradford  with 
her  paint  and  brushes.  She  could  not  understand.  Of 
course,  she  was  often  an  enigma  to  herself.  She  supposed 
that  men  and  women  were  always  enigmas  to  themselves ; 
but  then  others  seemed  to  be  able  to  conceal  the  fact. 

Mrs.  Bradford  was  watching  her ;  she  came  to  her  side, 
and  put  her  hand  on  Salome's  arm. 

"  Forgive  me,"  she  said,  "  but  do  you  dislike  to  have  me 
go  on  with  the  portrait  ?  I  can't  help  studying  you  as  I 
paint  it.  Do  you  object  ?" 

Moore  was  still  standing  in  front  of  the  easel  and  exam- 
ining the  picture.  Now  he  said,  remonstrantly : 

"  Salome,  I  want  this  portrait,  if  I  can  persuade  Mrs. 
Bradford  to  let  me  have  it.  I  beg  you  won't  take  up  any 
freak  about  it.  Besides,"  breaking  into  a  slight  laugh,  "if 
you  have  the  face  of  a  Puritan  and  that  of  a  woman  of  the 
tropics  all  in  one,  what  can  you  expect  but  that  some  one 
will  want  to  find  out  your  secret?" 

"  But  I  have  no  secret  —  I  have  no  secret,"  protested 
Salome,  with  more  warmth  than  was  quite  proper  to  display 
before  one  whom  she  knew  so  little  as  she  knew  her  hostess. 

Moore  laughed  again,  but  there  was  nothing  irritating  in 
his  laugh  or  in  his  manner  as  he  turned  to  his  wife. 

"  You  have  a  secret  all  the  same,  though  you  don't  know 
you  have  one,"  he  said,  "  and  I'm  going  to  encourage  Mrs. 
Bradford  to  paint  it ;  and  then  perhaps  I  shall  be  able  to 
understand  it  myself." 


228  OUT   OF   STEP 

Mrs.  Bradford  had  approached  the  canvas,  and  was  again 
touching  it  here  and  there  with  her  brush. 

"  You  know,"  she  said  now,  "  there  is  a  great  deal  of  talk 
about  our  dual  nature.  It's  all  very  mysterious.  I  suppose 
Mrs.  Moore  has  the  dual  nature  a  little  more  visible  than 
the  rest  of  us." 

"And  I  imagine,"  said  Salome,  with  some  eagerness, 
"that,  as  we  live  on,  one  of  these  natures  grows  stronger, 
and  the  other  grows  weaker.  Now  I — "  here  she  paused, 
her  face  becoming  more  vivid  and  her  eyes  deepening.  She 
was  afraid  she  was  getting  too  egotistic. 

"  Now  you — "  repeated  Mrs.  Bradford  in  a  way  that  im- 
pelled Salome  to  go  on,  with  her  gaze  fixed  on  the  woman 
near  her,  to  whom  she  seemed  to  be  making  a  confession. 
She  was  drawn  by  the  interest  in  the  elder  woman's  coun- 
tenance. 

"  I  was  only  going  to  say  that  I  seem  to  be  leaving  the 
Puritan  behind  me.  It  seems  to  be  years  behind  me.  I 
can  hardly  remember  that  time  when  I  was  continually  ask- 
ing if  this  or  that  were  right.  I  don't  think  about  right  very 
often  now.  I'm  just  happy,  you  see.  Mrs.  Bradford,  do 
you  think  happiness  tends  to  make  one  morally  weak  ?  But, 
then,  I  don't  care  much  whether  I'm  morally  weak  or  not. 
Please  don't  be  shocked.  But  you  will  not  be,  I  know.  To 
be  happy,  with  me,  has  something  of  the  effect  that  a  South- 
ern scene  has.  I  only  want  to  live,  just  to  live.  Oh,  Mrs. 
Bradford,  now  you  are  studying  me.  You  are  putting  some- 
thing more  in  the  portrait.  You  see,"  to  Moore,  "  I  say  just 
what  comes  to  me.  Anyway,  I  seem  to  be  doing  that 
now.  But  I  don't  talk  in  this  way  every  time  I  come, 
do  I  ?" 

The  artist  said  "  No,"  absently.     She  was  at  work. 

Moore  stepped  away  and  began  to  examine  some  of  the 
bronzes  and  pictures  which  were  here  and  there  about  the 
room. 

Salome  took  the  seat  it  had  been  her  habit  to  occupy,  and 
the  work  began  in  earnest. 


PORTRAIT    PAINTING  229 

Presently  Moore  left  the  two  women,  saying  he  would  re- 
turn in  a  couple  of  hours. 

At  the  best,  it  finally  becomes  wearisome  to  sit  still  and  be 
looked  at.  But  Mrs.  Bradford,  after  a  half-hour  of  silence, 
began  to  talk  as  she  painted. 

She  did  not  tell  Salome  that  it  was  the  puritanical  ex- 
pression she  now  wished  to  evoke.  But  she  had  not  stud- 
ied her  subject  for  several  mornings  without  having  arrived 
at  some  slight  knowledge. 

She  now  began  to  speak  of  Salome's  mother.  She  asked 
if  Mrs.  Gerry  came  often  to  the  city. 

"  Oh  no  ;  she  has  only  been  here  once.  Mr.  Moore 
thought  I  was  going  to  have  a  fever,  and  she  came  right  in 
and  stayed  until  I  was  better.  I  go  to  see  her  every  week. 
I  will  never  be  really  separated  from  my  mother." 

"  I  am  so  interested  in  her."  Mrs.  Bradford  said  these 
words  with  so  much  feeling  that  Salome's  eyes  filled.  "  She 
is  lonesome  without  you,"  added  Mrs.  Bradford. 

"  Yes." 

"  Can  you  not  persuade  her  to  come,  and  to  come  here 
with  you  ?" 

"  Oh,  do  you  mean  it  ?" 

"Certainly.     I  usually  mean  the  thing  I  say." 

"  Do  you  ?" 

There  was  something  in  Salome's  voice  as  she  pronounced 
those  two  words  that  made  Mrs.  Bradford  hold  her  brush 
suspended  in  her  hand.  She  gazed  at  her  guest  with  some- 
thing more  than  mere  interrogation. 

Salome  seemed  to  be  going  to  say  something  other  than 
what  she  did  say,  which  was  only  : 

"  People  are  so  different  about  that." 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  was  the  response.  "  But  I  never  could 
endure  even  the  little  conventional  lies  which  we  hear  every 
day.  Though  they  don't  deceive  any  one." 

"  I  suppose  it  is  considered  very  wrong  to  deceive  people, 
even  for  their  own  happiness,"  now  said  Salome. 

She  was  under  the  influence  of  a  wish  to  be  frank  with 


230  -  OUT   OF   STEP 

Mrs.  Bradford.  It  was  always  such  a  relief  to  meet  any  one 
like  her. 

"I  think  it's  wrong,"  was  the  quiet  response. 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  so.  I  wonder  why  it  is  thought  so  much 
more  wrong  than  to  break  some  of  the  other  command- 
ments ?" 

"  Some  things  are  what  you  might  call  more  fundamental 
than  others,  perhaps." 

"That  must  be  it,"  thoughtfully.  "  Everybody  seems  to 
think  so.  I  wonder  why  ?"  again. 

Mrs.  Bradford  looked  at  her. 

"  You  wonder  why  ?"  in  undisguised  surprise. 

"  Oh,"  returned  Salome,  laughing,  "  I'm  only  talking  to 
see  what  I  can  say,  as  we  used  to  do  when  we  were  chil- 
dren." 

Having  spoken  thus  there  was  silence  again.  Salome's 
thoughts  were  not  as  pleasant  as  usual,  and  Mrs.  Brad- 
ford immediately  discovered  this  fact.  She  began  to  work 
more  slowly  and  hesitatingly;  at  last  she  laid  down  her 
brush. 

"  My  inspiration  seems  to  be  gone,"  she  said.  "  I  cannot 
paint  you  if  you  are  not  happy.  Something  troubles  you." 

Mrs.  Bradford  sat  down  in  a  chair  near  her  companion. 
Without  speaking  she  was  yet  able  to  make  her  guest  aware 
of  a  warm  sympathy  and  interest. 

Salome  remained  for  a  few  moments  without  speaking, 
her  eyes  drooped.  At  last  she  looked  up. 

"Of  late  I  don't  very  often  look  into  the  future,"  she 
said ;  "  it  is  enough  to  live  in  the  present.  But  since  we 
have  been  talking  just  now  I've  been  thinking — Mrs.  Brad- 
ford will  you  think  it  very  strange  indeed  if  I  say  what  is  in 
my  mind?  You  are  sure  you  will  not?  You  know  some- 
times we  can  say  to  a  stranger  who  is  kind  and  in  sympa- 
thy what  we  cannot  say  to  one  nearer  ?" 

Salome's  eyes,  with  a  pleading  eagerness  in  them,  were 
now  fixed  upon  Mrs.  Bradford's  face— without  waiting  for 
any  reply  she  went  on  : 


PORTRAIT   PAINTING  231 

"I  know  it's  one  of  the  most  foolish  things  in  the  world, 
but  it  just  came  over  me  for  the  first  time  since  my  marriage 
that  it's  only  for  a  little  while  I  can  make  my  husband  hap- 
py— don't  interrupt  me,  please.  I  used  to  think  that  way  for 
a  long  time  before  we  were  married,  but  you  see  I  couldn't 
hold  out,  though  I  thought  I  was  convinced  that  I  ought 
to  hold  out.  I'm  not  going  to  tell  you  about  that ;  I  don't 
think  I  could  tell  any  one.  But  do  you  know  what  has  come 
into  my  mind  just  now  ?  Ought  I  to  tell  you  ?" 

"  I  think  I  shall  understand,"  was  the  reply ;  "  but  do  as 
you  feel." 

"  It's  a  strange  thing  to  say,  but  the  thought  clutched  me 
as  if  it  were  an  unrelenting  hand  that  my  husband  should 
have  married — oh,  don't  be  shocked  ! — he  should  have  mar- 
ried a  woman  like  you.  Then  I  could  look  forward  to  his 
future  with  assurance." 

Mrs.  Bradford  smiled  as  she  bent  forward  towards  her 
companion. 

"You  must  be  very  tired,"  she  said,  "or,"  with  another 
smile,  "  perhaps  you  are  dyspeptic  ?" 

"  No,  no,  I'm  not  tired,  and  I'm  perfectly  well,  and  I  wish 
I  was  another  kind  of  a  woman  !" 

Here  Salome  covered  her  face  with  her  hands.  She  did 
not  sob,  however,  but  sat  perfectly  still. 

Mrs.  Bradford  hesitated  before  she  said,  more  lightly 
than  she  felt : 

"  You  seem  to  be  the  kind  of  a  woman  whom  Mr.  Moore 
loves." 

"  Oh  yes,  I  know  that,"  with  her  face  still  covered ;  then 
suddenly  looking  up,  "but  don't  you  suppose  I  can  some- 
how become  all  that  you  call  Puritan  ?  If  I  could  get  to  be 
all  Puritan  I'm  sure  everything  would  be  right.  I  don't 
care,  only  for  mother  and  Randolph.  I  think  they  would 
like  to  have  me  that  way." 

Mrs.  Bradford  could  only  understand  in  a  general  man- 
ner. But  she  did  understand  that  the  two  natures  which 
showed  themselves  in  Mrs,  Moore's  face  must  be  at  odds 


232  OUT   OF   STEP 

with  each  other,  unless  one  so  far  predominated  as  to  hold 
possession  almost  undisputedly ;  and  this,  she  imagined, 
was  the  case.  She  now  said  that  if  Mrs.  Moore's  mother 
and  husband  wanted  her  to  be  a  certain  way — but  when  she 
had  begun  the  sentence  its  inadequacy  appeared  so  glaring 
to  her  that  she  did  not  finish  it.  But  Salome  understood 
her,  for  she  replied,  immediately : 

"Oh,  I  can't,  I  can't.  There's  something  in  me  that 
makes  me  be  just  myself ;  and  I  have  to  see  things  just  as 
I  do  see  them.  I  could  cut  off  a  hand,  or  shoot  myself,  at 
least  I  think  I  could,  for  these  two  people  I  love,  but  I 
can't  have  the  kind  of  conscience  they  have." 

Salome  rose  and  went  and  looked  at  the  portrait.  But 
she  did  not  seem  to  see  it. 

"You  must  think  I'm  a  very  strange  person  to  talk  like 
this  to  you,"  she  said,  as  if  addressing  the  portrait,  "  but  I 
felt  somehow,  all  at  once,  as  if  I  must  say  what  I've  said. 
It  came  over  me,  you  know,  and  now  I  shall  not  dwell  on  it 
at  all.  I  never  dwell  on  unpleasant  things  nowadays.  They 
drop  right  off  of  me."  She  turned  towards  Mrs.  Bradford. 
"  I  shall  be  happy  again,  and  you  may  go  on  painting  me 
to-morrow." 

And  Mrs.  Bradford  did  go  on  for  some  days  more,  giving 
herself  up  to  her  work  in  the  mornings  with  an  enthusiasm 
that  did  not  in  the  least  abate, 

Salome  noticed  that  the  painter  often  led  the  talk  to  Sa- 
lome's mother.  At  last,  when  the  portrait  seemed  to  be 
nearly  done,  Mrs.  Bradford  laid  down  her  brushes  and  mahl- 
stick  with  something  like  discouragement. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?"  asked  Salome.  "  Is  it  done ?  And 
is  it  really  as  happy  as  ever  ?" 

She  left  her  chair  to  see  if  she  could  decide  for  herself. 

"It's  just  as  happy,"  she  exclaimed,  "and  somehow  I 
like  it  better.  There's  more  in  it.  But  then  perhaps  there's 
more  in  it  than  there  is  in  my  face  really.  Do  you  think 
there  is  ?  I  shouldn't  like  that." 

Mrs.  Bradford  did  not  seem  in  good  spirits.     She  kept 


PORTRAIT    PAINTING  233 

stepping  here  and  there  that  she  might  look  at  her  work  in 
different  lights. 

"  Something  is  the  matter  with  it,"  she  said.  "And  until 
I  find  out  what  I  must  not  touch  it." 

Salome  tried  to  discover  for  herself  what  these  words 
meant,  but  she  could  not.  She  did  not  dare  to  say  that  she 
thought  another  touch  would  spoil  the  portrait.  But  then, 
she  reflected,  she  could  not  be  a  good  judge  of  her  own 
portrait. 

It  was  while  they  were  standing  by  the  easel  and  Mrs. 
Bradford  was  frowning  slightly  as  she  looked,  that  a  servant 
came  in  with  two  cards. 

Mrs.  Bradford  took  them. 

"  I  forgot  they  were  to  come  this  morning,"  she  said,  as 
if  to  herself.  "  Show  them  here,"  to  the  servant. 

Salome  walked  to  where  her  cloak  and  bonnet  lay  on  a 
couch.  She  had  just  thrown  her  cloak  over  her  shoulders 
when  the  sound  of  a  voice  made  her  pause.  Her  face  grew 
pale,  then  resolute. 

What  she  was  saying  to  herself  was : 

"  I  think  I  might  have  had  a  little  more  time  before  see- 
ing her." 

Having  thought  this,  with  her  bonnet  in  her  hand,  she 
faced  about  and  waited  as  Mrs.  Darrah  and  her  niece  en- 
tered the  studio. 

Mrs.  Darrah  was  animated.  She  went  quickly  to  her 
hostess,  saying  that  Mrs.  Bradford  might  rely  upon  it  that 
her  kindness  in  allowing  them  to  come  was  appreciated. 

"  I  took  the  liberty  to  bring  my  niece,  Miss  Nunally,  Mrs. 
Bradford.  I  hope  it  was  not  too  much  of  a  liberty.  But 
she  knows  a  great  deal  about  art.  Indeed,  there  are  a  good 
many  things  that  she  knows  about,  as  you  will  soon  dis- 
cover. Portia,  make  your  bow  to  Mrs.  Bradford." 

Portia  came  forward  in  her  most  pleasing  way.  She 
responded  modestly  to  the  greeting  given  to  her.  Then  she 
walked  to  the  easel  and  stood  before  it  in  silence.  She  was 
joined  by  her  aunt,  who  said  it  was  particularly  this  she  had 


234  OUT  OF  STEP 

come  to  see.  She  knew  the  moment  she  saw  Mrs.  Moore 
this  season  that  Mrs.  Bradford  was  the  only  artist,  man  or 
woman,  who  could  do  this  portrait. 

"  Mrs.  Moore  is  here,"  said  Mrs.  Bradford. 

Portia  had  known  this  from  the  instant  of  her  entering. 
She  had  seen  Salome,  and  only  Salome,  it  seemed  to  her, 
though  the  latter  had  stood  withdrawn  and  half  screened 
by  a  huge  torso. 

"  Oh,  is  she  ?" 

Mrs.  Darrah  turned  about  quickly,  scenting  some  dra- 
matic scene  and  anxious  to  take  it  in  fully. 

But  there  was  no  scene  at  all.  Salome  advanced  im- 
mediately and  shook  hands  with  the  new-comers.  She 
asked  Portia  if  she  had  just  left  Florida — and  was  it  not 
early  in  the  season  to  come  away  from  the  South?  As  for 
her,  she  thought  the  spring  winds  here  in  Boston  very 
trying. 

Yes,  Portia  had  arrived  only  the  night  before.  The 
friends  with  whom  she  had  been  staying  had  suddenly  re- 
solved to  come  home. 

"  And  of  course  I  could  not  remain,  a  poor  unchaper- 
oned  thing,  down  there  in  a  hotel " — finishing  her  explana- 
tion thus,  the  girl  laughed.  Then  she  turned  away,  glanced 
again  at  the  portrait,  and  remarked  in  an  agreeable  and 
superficial  voice  that  one  whom  Mrs.  Bradford  consented 
to  paint  ought  to  feel  flattered.  In  a  moment  she  resumed  : 

"  We  stopped  over  a  day  in  New  York,  and  I  had  the 
pleasure  of  meeting  Mr.  Moore.  Odd,  wasn't  it  ?  We  hap- 
pened to  be  in  at  Delmonico's  for  lunch,  and  he  walked 
up  to  our  table.  I  congratulated  him  that  his  uncle  had 
died  without  changing  his  will.  Even  in  a  marriage  for 
love  it  is  not  unpleasant  to  have  plenty  of  money.  And 
then  if  you  have  an  uncle  who  has  money,  it  is  nice  to 
have  him  die  when  he  can  do  the  most  good  by  dying. 
Uncles  are  not  often  sufficiently  thoughtful  about  dying  in 
time."  And  Portia  strolled  off  down  the  room  to  look  at 
sketches  and  pictures. 


PORTRAIT    PAINTING  235 

After  having  listened  to  a  few  words  from  Mrs.  Darrah,' 
Salome  hastened  out  into'  the  street.  She  was  thinking 
that  Portia  looked  much  older,  that  her  face  had  hardened 
in  some  way ;  still,  the  subtle  something  that  made  Portia 
at  will  a  fascinating  woman  remained. 

When  Mrs.  Darrah  and  her  niece  left  the  studio  and 
entered  the  carriage  in  waiting  for  them  Portia  began  to 
talk  immediately  of  the  artist.  She  talked  so  persistently 
of  her  and  her  work  that  Mrs.  Darrah  exclaimed  : 

"  Portia,  I  wish  you  wouldn't  chatter  so  !  You  make  my 
head  spin  ;  and  I'm  trying  to  describe  that  portrait  for  my 
next  chapter." 

"  Are  you  still  using  Salome  ?"  asked  the  girl.  Then  she 
shrugged  her  shoulders.  "  How  disgusting  it  is  to  see  any 
one  as  happy  as  she  is !  But  there's  something  the  matter 
with  the  portrait.  It  has  too  much  conscience  in  it  now — 
it  is  more  like  what  Salome  was  in  Florida  at  the  very 
first,  when  you  know  she  was  just  a  conscience  walking 
about  in  incipient  phthisis.  She  recovered  from  her  con- 
science sooner  even  than  she  did  from  her  phthisis.  She 
hasn't  much  of  it  left  now.  Oh,  how  happy  she  looks  !" 
Here  the  speaker  but  half  repressed  a  shudder.  "  If  I  had 
a  paint-brush  in  my  hand  and  knew  how  to  use  it,  I  would 
make  that  a  portrait  of  a  kind  of  odalisque  and  have  done 
with  it.  It's  a  New  England  face,  but  it  isn't  a  New  Eng- 
land spirit.  How  is  one  going  to  manage  such  a  subject  as 
that?" 

"I  thought  Mrs.  Bradford's  success  quite  phenomenal," 
remarked  Mrs.  Darrah. 

"  So  it  is.  But  you  see  she  is  dissatisfied  with  her  work. 
She  will  change  it.  I  should  like  to  see  what  she  does 
with  it." 

It  was  so  true  that  the  artist  was  dissatisfied  that  she 
could  not  get  the  portrait  out  of  her  mind.  While  Salome 
had  been  talking  this  last  time  there  had  been  that  in  her 
face  which  made  Mrs.  Bradford  put  in  a  few  touches  which 
altered  the  expression.  Now,  left  alone  with  the  picture, 


236  OUT  OF   STEP 

the  maker  of  it  walked  restlessly  here  and  there,  trying  to 
get  to  a  point  from  which  she  could  view  it  with  some  satis- 
faction. It  now  seemed  to  her  simply  a  New  England 
face,  spiritual,  and  with  a  hint  of  ardor  in  it.  She  had  seen 
such  faces  before.  But  she  knew  very  well  that  she  had 
never  seen  a  face  like  Salome's  before. 

She  almost  resolved  not  to  touch  it  for  some  days ;  but 
the  next  day  she  was  before  it  again,  and  the  next,  although 
Salome  was  not  to  have  another  sitting  until  the  following 
week. 

As  she  stood  studying  absorbedly,  she  would  make  a 
touch  here  and  there,  then  draw  back  to  note  the  effect. 
At  last  the  cloud  of  doubt  and  bewilderment  left  her 
mind.  She  laid  down  her  brushes  and  pressed  her  hands 
together. 

"  That  is  really  it,"  she  exclaimed  with  exultation. 

While  she  was  thus  contemplating  her  work  a  servant 
came  and  said  that  a  person  who  expected  to  meet  Mrs. 
Moore  was  in  the  reception-room.  Should  he  show  her  to 
the  studio  ? 

Anybody  connected  with  Mrs.  Moore  was  interesting  to 
Mrs.  Bradford,  so  she  said  yes,  and  presently  a  middle- 
aged  woman  appeared  under  the  portiere  which  the  servant 
held  aside. 

This  woman  was  dressed  in  black  of  the  best  material, 
but  with  no  "style"  whatever  in  her  appearance.  She  hesi- 
tated, not  in  confusion,  however. 

"  I  thought  I  should  find  my  daughter  here,"  she  said. 

Mrs.  Bradford  hastened  forward,  her  face  lighting.  She 
held  out  her  hand. 

"  I  knew  you  were  her  mother,"  she  responded,  with 
some  eagerness.  "  I  am  so  glad  to  see  you." 

Mrs.  Gerry's  controlled  countenance  gave  way  somewhat. 
She  said  to  herself,  "  I  wish  this  woman  was  Salome's 
friend." 

An  arm-chair  was  pulled  forward  and  the  guest  was  seated 
in  it. 


PORTRAIT    PAINTING  237 

"  My  daughter  asked  me  to  meet  her  here  at  this  time," 
she  said.  "  She  wanted  me  to  see  the  portrait." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  replied  Mrs.  Bradford,  still  more  eagerly  than 
she  usually  spoke.  "  I  have  so  much  wished  you  would 
come."  She  stooped,  gently  took  Mrs.  Gerry's  hand,  and 
led  her  in  front  of  the  easel.  As  she  stood  there  with  her 
she  retained  the  hand  in  a  warm  clasp. 

The  mother's  eyes  gave  one  long  look  at  the  painted 
face,  then  they  turned  away.  They  seemed  to  be  seeking 
some  object  upon  which  they  could  rest.  But  they  came 
back  again.  She  made  an  effort,  and  stood  more  erectly, 
as  if  thus  the  better  to  endure  something. 

After  a  moment  she  said  that  she  believed  she  would  sit 
down ;  she  found  that  she  was  tired.  She  wasn't  used  to 
being  round  in  a  city,  and  she  became  more  tired  than  if 
she  were  at  home  and  at  work. 

Mrs.  Bradford  drew  the  chair  yet  nearer,  and  sat  down 
by  her  companion. 

Presently  Mrs.  Gerry  seemed  to  think  that  she  must  speak. 

"  Of  course,"  she  said,  "  you  never  could  have  seen  his 
likeness  ;  I  don't  think  he  ever  had  any  likeness,  either." 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  was  the  response. 

"  I  hope  you'll  excuse  me,"  returned  Mrs.  Gerry,  care- 
fully. "  But  I  was  so  surprised  when  I  looked  at  your 
painting  of  my  daughter." 

"  Isn't  it  like  her,  then  ?" 

Mrs.  Gerry  now  fixed  her  eyes  on  her  companion  as  if  in 
restrained  but  still  intense  examination.  Then  she  seemed 
to  relax  through  her  whole  frame. 

"  Like  her  ?"  she  said  in  a  whisper.  "  It  is  a  picture  of 
her  soul.  But  how  strange  it  is  to  talk  like  this  !  I  hope 
you  will  forgive  me.  She  has  never  resembled  my  grand- 
father in  the  least  in  looks,  but  there  she  does  resemble 
him — there  she  might  be  his  own  child.  How  did  you  find 
her  out  ?  What  shall  I  do  if  she  is  not  happy  ?  And  how 
can  she  be  happy  for  long?  But  if  we  will  only  do  right,  it 
is  not  necessary  to  be  happy." 


238  OUT   OF    STEP 

Here  Mrs.  Gerry  stopped  suddenly  and  made  an  attempt 
to  resume  her  ordinary  manner.  She  had  been  greatly 
startled,  but  even  then  she  would  not  have  yielded  to  her 
surprise  if  there  had  not  been  something  in  Mrs.  Bradford's 
manner  which  made  her  feel  as  if  there  were  no  need  of 
concealment  with  her.  In  a  moment  she  asked  : 

"  Has  Mr.  Moore  seen  this  ?" 

"  Not  as  it  is  now,"  was  the  reply. 


XV 

IN    THE   STUDIO 

MRS.  GERRY  remained  silent  before  the  easel.  She  ap- 
peared to  be  looking  at  the  picture  resolutely.  But  she 
knew  that  it  would  be  difficult  to  withdraw  her  eyes  from 
it.  She  was  afraid.  Into  her  strong  nature  had  penetrated 
a  strange  fear  of  which  she  could  not  yet  divest  herself.  It 
seemed  to  her  like  a  miracle  that  a  stranger  had  been  able 
to  dive  into  her  daughter's  nature,  and  then  to  put  that  nat- 
ure upon  canvas. 

Mrs.  Bradford  must  be  possessed  of  wonderful  gifts. 
What  Mrs.  Gerry  would  have  hidden  from  all  the  world 
this  woman's  mind  had  openly  displayed.  But  what  a 
drawing,  holding  power  the  picture  had !  How  innocent 
it  looked !  And  yet  there  was  a  hint  of  possibilities  in  it. 
Mrs.  Gerry  had  an  impulse  to  shield  Salome  from  some- 
thing which  the  portrait  suggested. 

"  I  am  very  sorry  this  has  been  done,"  she  said,  with  an 
earnestness  that  had  something  of  austerity  in  it. 

"You  must  blame  me,"  Mrs.  Bradford  hastened  to  say. 
"  I  asked  permission,  and  Mrs.  Moore  was  so  kind  as  to 
grant  it.  I  wish  you  would  not  feel  badly  about  it.  You 
see  the  child  looked  so  happy ;  it  was  so  lovely  to  meet 
such  a  person !  Do  you  think  I  did  wrong  ?"  and  the 
speaker  could  not  help  adding,  "  and  do  you  really  think 
I  have  succeeded  ?" 

"  Succeeded  ?  Oh  yes.  I  wish  you  had  not.  I  wish 
you  had  not  thought  of  this  thing.  I — I  can't  get  over  it." 

Mrs.  Gerry,  with  marked  decision  of  manner,  walked  away 
from  the  easel,  and  sat  down  with  her  back  to  it.  She  fold- 


240  OUT   OF    STEP 

ed  her  hands  in  her  lap,  and  looked  straight  ahead  of  her. 
She  was  already  thinking  that  she  had  said  too  much — that 
she  had  displayed  too  much  feeling. 

Her  hostess  remained  for  a  moment  by  the  picture,  but 
she  glanced  at  her  guest  sitting  there.  Mrs.  Bradford  was 
asking  herself  why  she  was  so  unusually  interested.  Per- 
haps it  was  partly  because  her  own  girlhood  was  strongly 
recalled  by  something  in  Mrs.  Gerry's  aspect  and  manner. 
The  low-ceiled  rooms,  the  fields,  the  hills,  the  sky,  the  dear 
desolation  of  the  country  in  fall  and  winter,  all  came  back 
to  the  artist's  memory  with  a  distinctness  which  made  her 
heart  beat  more  swiftly. 

She  was  not  given  to  too  much  demonstration,  but  just 
now  she  was  tempted  to  go  to  Mrs.  Gerry,  to  kneel  by  her 
side  and  put  her  arms  about  her.  She  was  dimly  aware 
that  there  must  be  something  stirring  and  dramatic  in  the 
history  of  that  girl  whose  portrait  she  had  just  painted. 
She  wondered  if  she  should  ever  know  that  history.  It  did 
not  appear,  however,  that  Mrs.  Moore  knew  much  of  the 
world,  or  had  passed  through  many  different  experiences ; 
there  was  a  touching  freshness  in  the  face  and  the  outlook 
of  that  face. 

What  was  it  ? 

Impelled  by  an  increasing  interest,  Mrs.  Bradford,  rather 
wondering  at  herself,  crossed  the  floor  to  Mrs.  Gerry's  side 
and  placed  her  hand  on  the  woman's  shoulder. 

"  Don't  be  so  troubled  !"  she  said,  softly. 

Mrs.  Gerry  looked  up  quickly.  The  sympathy  and  the 
trustworthiness  in  the  face  bending  down  to  her  seemed 
to  weaken  her,  as  one  appears  to  weaken  when  a  ten- 
sion is  relaxed.  But  she  tried  instantly  to  brace  herself 
again. 

"  I  guess,  perhaps,  I'm  one  that  borrows  trouble,"  she 
said.  "  I  don't  know  why  I  should  feel  like  talking  some 
to  you,  when  you  are  a  stranger.  I  haven't  been  quite  well 
for  a  week  or  two,  and  I've  slept  poorly  and  dreamed  so 
much.  That's  why  I  decided  to  come  in  and  see  Salome. 


IN    THE    STUDIO  24! 

I  began  to  worry  about  her  more  than  common.  But  this 
must  be  very  uninteresting  to  you." 

Mrs.  Gerry  opened  a  little  bag  she  carried,  drew  her  hand- 
kerchief from  it,  and  wiped  her  lips  carefully,  keeping  the 
handkerchief  in  its  fold. 

"  On  the  contrary,"  responded  Mrs.  Bradford,  emphati- 
cally, "it  is  very  interesting  to  me.  And  don't  you  know 
one  is  often  tempted  to  speak  freely  to  a  stranger  who  is  in 
sympathy  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Gerry,  looking  up,  "  that  must  be  so." 

She  said  nothing  more,  though  her  companion  waited 
expectantly  for  a  moment.  Then  Mrs.  Bradford  spoke 
again : 

"  I  cannot  imagine  why  you  should  worry  about  your 
daughter,  unless  it  be  that  too  much  happiness  always 
makes  one  anxious." 

Mrs.  Gerry  put  her  hands,  in  their  black  kid  gloves,  over 
the  little  bag.  There  was  some  wistfulness  in  her  eyes  as 
she  raised  them. 

"  I  don't  know  what  it  is,"  she  said,  going  back  to  a  for- 
mer thought,  "that  makes  me  want  to  talk  with  you.  I 
don't  have  anybody  to  talk  to,  anyway.  I  never  thought  I 
was  one  of  the  kind  that  confided  much  in  folks." 

A  sudden  pang  came  to  the  heart  of  the  younger  woman. 
She  could  not  speak  immediately.  But  in  a  moment  she 
said : 

"  Do  you  care  to  have  me  tell  you  that  I  am  sure  it  is 
safe,  as  safe  as  for  you  to  tell  yourself,  to  talk  to  me,  if  you 
feel  to  do  so  ?" 

She  was  conscious  of  a  certain  electric  stir  in  the  mental 
atmosphere  that  surrounded  them.  The  other  did  not 
speak  for  a  time,  and  Mrs.  Bradford  kept  silence.  She 
drew  a  chair  near  and  sat  down.  She  had  a  wish  to  be 
close  to  her  guest.  Curiously,  the  years  between  her  own 
life  in  the  country  and  the  present  time  seemed  to  roll  away, 
leaving  her  a  girl  at  the  farm-house,  with  her  heart  full  of 
eager,  unformed  ambitions  and  enthusiasms. 


242  OUT   OF   STEP 

"  I  want  to  ask  you,"  now  said  Mrs.  Gerry,  "  if  my  daugh- 
ter has  talked  much  of  herself  to  you.  She  is  rather  strange 
about  that ;  sometimes  she  is  so  frank  that  she  frightens 
me.  She  doesn't  see  things  as  I  do.  I've  been  afraid  that 
I  didn't  bring  her  up  right.  Has  she  talked  much  to  you 
— about  herself,  I  mean  ?" 

"  No." 

The  mother  was  visibly  relieved. 

"  She  has — well,  she  has  peculiar  ideas,"  she  said,  after  a 
little  silence.  Then,  with  some  abruptness,  "  Mrs.  Brad- 
ford, how  much  do  you  believe  in  heredity  ?" 

The  other  did  not  reply  immediately.  She  hardly  knew 
what  to  say.  She  saw  that  the  subject  was  of  intense  in- 
terest to  her  companion.  At  last  she  answered,  rather  un- 
satisfactorily, that  she  believed  a  great  deal  in  it. 

"  But,  of  course,"  said  Mrs.  Gerry,  quickly,  "  I  suppose 
you  don't  think  anything  short  of  insanity  can  take  away 
our  responsibility  ?  We  are  put  here  to  choose,  you  know. 
We  choose  just  as  we  please ;  and  we  have  to  suffer  the 
consequences.  One  choice  often  changes  our  lives,  puts 
us  in  another  road,  you  know.  I  hope  you'll  excuse  me, 
but  I've  thought  and  thought  until  sometimes  it  almost 
seems  as  if  I  couldn't  think  any  more.  Only  I  keep  right 
on." 

"  You  ought  not  to  be  so  much  alone,"  was  the  response. 
And  then  Mrs.  Bradford  continued  rather  hurriedly,  "  You 
are  worried  because  your  daughter  inherits  something  you 
don't  like  from  some  ancestor  of  whom  you  do  not  approve. 
Yes,  I  understand.  And  you  think  if  you  had  brought  her 
up  right  you  might  have  eradicated  some  tendencies.  Now 
I'm  sure  you  brought  her  up  right,  so  far  as  faith  and  honor 
and  integrity  are  concerned.  I'm  sure  of  it.  But  she  has 
some  strain  of — of,  what  shall  I  call  it  ? — the  tropics,  the  lax- 
ness  which  goes  with  that  strain  sometimes.  You  couldn't 
eradicate  that,  and  you  don't  understand  that  any  more 
than  you  understand  Greek.  But  there  it  is.  And  it's  mixed 
up  with  the  New  England  part  of  her  nature.  And,  you  see, 


IN  THE   STUDIO  243 

I'm  frank  — I  think  the  Southern  warmth  and  glow,  and 
may  I  say  conscienceless  part  of  her,  are  fast  getting  the 
supremacy. 

"  Don't  think  she  has  talked  to  me,  but  I  have  watched 
her  face  with  an  interest  so  keen  that  I  cannot  describe  it 
to  you.  If  you  sometimes  painted  portraits,  Mrs.  Gerry, 
you  would  know  how  much  may  be  learned  from  the  study 
of  a  face.  And  let  me  tell  you  that  I  cannot  imagine  how 
any  one  can  be  with  your  daughter  without  loving  her.  She 
has,  in  a  phenomenal  degree,  that  utterly  mysterious  some- 
thing which  wins  love.  It  is  something  that  is  not  depend- 
ent upon  character,  and  which  nobody  has  yet  been  able 
to  analyze.  People  put  names  to  the  quality,  but  the  names 
amount  to  nothing. 

"  Am  I  giving  you  quite  a  lecture,  Mrs.  Gerry  ?  Pardon 
me,  then.  I  don't  think  I  can  make  you  know  what  a 
hold  Mrs.  Moore  has  obtained  over  my  heart  and  my  im- 
agination. I  don't  know  what  it  is  ;  she  seizes  you,  she 
appeals  to  you.  She  makes  you  think  of  her  continu- 
ally." 

As  Mrs.  Bradford  spoke  thus,  with  an  increasing  warmth, 
Mrs.  Gerry  leaned  towards  her  as  if  drawn  by  the  intensity 
of  her  feeling. 

But  when  the  speaker  ceased  the  elder  woman,  instead 
of  yielding  to  that  feeling,  drew  herself  up  and  away.  She 
brought  her  pale  face  into  greater  control.  She  was  al- 
ways fearing  that  she  would  not  have  herself  entirely  in 
hand. 

"  I  know  I  think  of  her  continually,"  she  said,  "  but  then," 
with  a  smile,  "  I'm  her  mother.  I  suppose  I  ought  not  to 
feel  so  hurt  that  you've  found  out  that  Salome  isn't  one 
who  hasn't  much  conscience.  But  it  does  hurt  me.  It 
keeps  hurting  me." 

She  was  not  appealing  in  the  least  for  sympathy.  She 
was  stating  a  fact,  and  stating  it  in  a  way  so  that  it  should 
be  plain.  She  had  never  before  talked  just  like  this  to 
any  human  being.  She  had  said  a  few  words  to  her  minis- 


244  OUT  OF  STEP 

ter  on  that  night  when  Salome  was  married.  Now  she  was 
already  beginning  to  fear  that  she  had  yielded  to  a  weak- 
ness. It  was  surely  a  weakness  not  to  keep  troubles  to 
yourself.  'Some  people  were  always  talking  about  their 
troubles.  One  became  very  weary  of  such  people.  Per- 
haps Mrs.  Bradford,  who  seemed  so  kind,  was  weary  of  her 
now. 

"  Salome  has  told  you  of  no  events  in  her  life  ?"  she  asked, 
suddenly. 

11  No." 

Mrs.  Gerry  rose.  She  was  thinking  that  she  had  been 
weak  and  foolish  to  come  to  Boston  because  of  dreams.  It 
must  be  that  she  was  really  losing  something  of  her  self- 
control. 

"  I'm  afraid  Salome  is  detained  somewhere,"  she  re- 
marked, "and  I'm  keeping  you.  You  have  been  very  good." 

"  You  are  not  keeping  me  against  my  will,"  was  the  re- 
ply. "  I'm  so  interested,  Mrs.  Gerry.  You  are  not  going  ? 
Please  stay  until  your  daughter  comes." 

Mrs.  Gerry  stood  hesitating.  "  I  don't  know  as  I  ought," 
she  responded.  "  I'm  glad  I've  seen  you,  Mrs.  Bradford. 
It's  done  me  good.  I'm  trying  not  to  worry." 

The  speaker  gazed  about  the  room.  She  avoided  look- 
ing at  the  easel.  But  at  last  she  said,  deprecatingly,  that 
she  must  be  getting  childish  if  she  couldn't  look  calmly  at 
some  colors  put  on  canvas. 

Having  spoken  thus  she  advanced  to  a  place  in  front  of 
the  portrait  and  stood  absorbed  before  it. 

"  It  hasn't  got  my  grandfather's  features,  and  it  hasn't  got 
his  color,"  she  said, "  but  it  has  his  very  look — his  very  look. 
There's  no  Ware  and  no  Gerry  in  it." 

"Was  your  grandfather  a  bad  man  ?" 

Mrs.  Bradford  ventured  to  put  this  question. 

"  He  hadn't  any  principle,"  replied  Mrs.  Gerry.  "  He 
never  did  anything  just  because  it  was  right.  He  didn't 
care  for  right.  He  only  cared  to  love  and  to  be  loved,  and 
to  have  the  weather  warm  and  sunny." 


IN    THE    STUDIO  245 

"  People  loved  him  ?'•' 

"  Oh  yes.  You  had  to  love  him.  You  couldn't  reason  at 
all  about  it ;  you  had  to  love  him." 

Mrs.  Bradford  smiled. 

"We  don't  reason  much  as  to  love,"  she  said. 

"  No ;  but  it  is  a  good  thing  when  reason  approves  of  a 
love." 

Mrs.  Gerry  spoke  with  more  emphasis  than  usual.  Soon 
she  turned  to  her  companion. 

"  Salome  tells  me  that  you  know  Mrs.  Darrah  and  Miss 
Nunally." 

This  seemed  to  the  woman  addressed  to  be  an  irrelevant 
remark,  and  she  wondered  at  it. 

"  I  have  met  them,"  she  answered.  She  thought  that  her 
companion  looked  at  her  with  some  wistfulness,  but  she 
could  not  help  her  any. 

"  Have  you  talked  with  them  much  ?" 

"  Oh  no,"  in  great  surprise.  "  I  have  had  no  oppor- 
tunity." 

"  But  you  will  have,  you  certainly  will  have." 

Here  Mrs.  Gerry's  perplexity  was  so  plainly  evident  that 
Mrs.  Bradford  suddenly  took  her  hand  and  held  it  closely. 

"  Does  it  annoy  you  that  I  may  see  those  people  ?"  she 
asked. 

"  I  can't  help  things.  I  can't  help  things,"  said  Mrs. 
Gerry,  "  and  what  I  can't  help  I  ought  to  leave  ;  I  must 
just  leave  it  all."  She  fixed  her  eyes  on  Mrs.  Bradford's 
face.  "  But  I  do  wish  that  when  you  come  to  hear  Mrs. 
Darrah — I  don't  know  what  she  will  say — but  when  you 
come  to  hear  her — won't  you  judge  as  kindly  as  you  can  ? 
It's  so  strange,  but  I  care  a  great  deal  that  you  should 
judge  kindly.  And  since  you  have  been  able  to  find  out 
some  of  my  child's  tendencies  and  to  put  them  in  her  por- 
trait, perhaps  you  will  consider  all  these  things — ' 

Mrs.  Gerry  stopped  abruptly. 

There  was  a  sound  at  the  door,  and  Salome  entered. 

She  came  forward  quickly,  her  presence  shedding  a  kind 


246  OUT   OF   STEP 

of  glow  in  the  studio.  She  gave  her  hand  to  Mrs.  Brad- 
ford, then  she  said  that  she  hoped  her  mother  had  not 
given  her  up,  but  that  she  had  met  Miss  Nunally  at  Chand- 
ler's, and  Miss  Nunally  had  insisted  upon  having  help  in 
selecting  some  kind  of  a  spring  wrap. 

"  As  if  I  could  help  a  woman  like  her !"  concluded  Sa- 
lome, with  a  laugh.  "  And  what  does  mother  think  of  the 
portrait  ?  Why  " — her  face  changing — "  is  there  anything 
wrong  ?" 

"  No,  no,"  Mrs.  Bradford  hastened  to  say,  "  nothing.  But 
your  mother  and  I  have  had  a  little  talk,  and  she  owns  that 
she  is  sorry  I  undertook  to  paint  your  portrait." 

"  What  ?  Doesn't  she  think  it's  a  likeness  ?"  in  sur- 
prise. 

"  The  likeness  is  too  good,"  said  Mrs.  Gerry.  "  And  now 
if  you  are  ready,  Salome,  we  will  go.  If  your  husband  wants 
the  portrait  I've  nothing  to  say.  I  guess  I  must  be  kind 
of  old-fashioned,  but  somehow  I  don't  quite  approve  of 
having  your  real  self  put  like  that  for  anybody  to  look 
at." 

Mrs.  Gerry  shook  hands  in  a  formal  manner  with  Mrs. 
Bradford,  and  in  answer  to  that  lady's  remark  that  she 
would  like  to  call  upon  her  before  she  left  town,  she  re- 
plied that  she  had  made  up  her  mind  to  go  out  home  that 
night. 

"  I  hope  I  haven't  said  anything  out  of  the  way,"  she 
added,  "  and  I'm  very  glad  I've  seen  you,  Mrs.  Bradford. 
You'll  think  it's  foolish,  but  I  feel  better  some  way.  Only," 
scrupulously,  "  I  don't  think  it's  a  good  plan  to  paint  such 
a  portrait  as  that." 

Then  mother  and  daughter  went  into  the  street  and 
walked  along  almost  in  silence  to  the  hotel. 

Mrs.  Gerry  took  her  few  belongings.  She  refused  to  al- 
low her  daughter  to  order  a  carriage.  She  said  there  was 
no  need  of  such  expense.  They  went  in  a  trolley  car  to  a 
corner  near  the  station.  Mrs.  Gerry  was  always  afraid  in 
a  trolley  car,  but  she  never  mentioned  that  fear  to  any  one. 


IN    THE   STUDIO  247 

She  was  keenly  aware  of  her  ignorance  concerning  all 
that  pertained  to  the  motive  power  of  these  vehicles,  and 
she  was  deeply  thankful  when  she  was  on  the  sidewalk 
again. 

But  the  moment  of  parting  with  her  daughter  was  one 
of  anguish  to  her.  She  could  not  reason  herself  out  of  this 
suffering,  try  as  she  would.  It  was  always  so  when  she 
left  Salome.  She  had  to  undergo  that  wrenching  of  the 
heart.  For  years  she  had  tried  to  school  herself  against 
this,  and  air  her  endeavors  had  been  fruitless.  She  often 
wondered  at  this  and  at  her  entire  lack  of  success.  She 
argued  that  she  ought  to  be  able  to  do  what  was  reason- 
able. It  was  reasonable  to  feel  only  a  moderate  sorrow  at 
leaving  Salome,  who  was  coming  to  her  in  a  few  days. 

But  there  was  nothing  moderate  in  this  longing  to  take 
the  child  in  her  arms  and  hold  her  fast. 

"  I  wish  'twas  so  you  saw  a  good  deal  of  Mrs.  Bradford," 
said  Mrs.  Gerry,  as  the  two  stood  waiting  for  the  gate  to 
open  that  the  passengers  might  take  their  places  in  the 
train. 

"  So  do  I,"  was  the  answer. 

Then  Salome  put  her  hand  down  and  found  her  mother's 
hand,  which  was  hanging  by  her  side. 

"Are  you  worrying,  mother?"  in  a  tremulous  voice. 
"You  needn't.  I'm  happy.  You've  no  idea  how  good 
Randolph  is !" 

Mrs.  Gerry  smiled. 

"  I  know  that ;  I'm  not  worrying  about  Randolph's  not 
being  good." 

"  It's  about  me,  then  ?  But  you  needn't.  There  goes 
the  gate.  I  want  to  see  you  seated." 

Salome  lingered,  standing  in  the  aisle  by  her  mother. 
She  bent  over  her  and  assured  her  again  that  there  was 
nothing  to  worry  about. 

"  You  ought  to  be  content,  since  I'm  so  happy,"  she  re- 
peated. "  But  I  shall  be  happier  when  it  is  warm  weather, 
and  I  am  out  in  the  country  all  the  time  with  you." 


248  OUT   OF    STEP 

"  Salome,"  said  Mrs.  Gerry,  "  you  think  too  much  of 
happiness." 

"  Oh  no,"  was  the  answer,  with  assurance ;  "  I'm  right 
about  some  things,  mother.  Let  us  think  of  the  long,  hot 
summer  days  which  are  coming,  and  that  then  we  shall  be 
together.  And  in  the  fall  we  shall  go  South.  I  like  to 
dream  about  that." 

"  Don't  stay  here  any  longer,"  said  the  elder  woman, 
anxiously ;  "  you'll  get  carried  off." 

People  were  hurrying  in.  Salome  kissed  her  mother. 
She  left  the  car  and  stood  outside  by  the  window,  looking 
up  at  her  until  the  train  started.  Mrs.  Gerry  gazed  at  the 
slender  figure  with  the  radiant  face  until  she  could  see  it 
no  longer.  Then  she  sat  upright,  pressed  her  lips  closely 
together,  and  maintained  her  position  until  she  left  the  car 
at  her  own  station. 

She  was  walking  towards  the  public  carriage  which  met 
this  train  to  take  passengers  into  her  neighborhood,  when 
some  one  close  to  her  said : 

"  Good-evening,  Mrs.  Gerry,  are  you  going  home  ?" 

It  was  Walter  Redd. 

"  Is  that  you,  Walter  ?     Yes,  I'm  going  right  home." 

"  Do  let  me  take  you,  then ;  my  horse  and  buggy  are 
right  here." 

Mrs.  Gerry  would  rather  have  gone  by  herself,  but  pres- 
ently she  was  sitting  beside  Redd  in  the  buggy. 

"  I  s'pose  you've  been  to  see  Salome  ?"  he  remarked, 
after  a  few  moments  of  silence. 

Redd  never  voluntarily  spoke  of  Salome  to  any  one  save 
her  mother. 

"Yes,  I  got  worried  somehow,  and  I  couldn't  wait  till 
the  time  for  her  to  come  out." 

Mrs.  Gerry  was  more  outspoken  with  Walter  than  with 
any  one  whom  she  saw  among  her  neighbors. 

"  I  hope  she's  well,"  stiffly. 

"  Oh  yes  ;  and  happy,  Walter."  Here  a  little  hesitation. 
"  I'm  sure  we  ought  to  be  thankful  that  she's  so  happy." 


IN   THE   STUDIO  249 

"  I  know  it.  If  it  '11  only  last.  But  if  it  depends  on 
Moore — " 

Redd  did  not  finish  his  sentence.  He  had  never  for- 
given Moore  for  what  he  believed  was  his  desertion  of 
Salome  in  Florida. 

"  Walter,  you  judge  Moore  all  wrong.  I  can't  explain, 
but  you  do." 

"  You  needn't  try  to  blind  me  about  that  fellow,"  he  re- 
plied, with  a  kind  of  cold  savageness.  "  I  was  taken  in  by 
him  at  first,  but  you  can't  pull  the  wool  over  my  eyes  a 
second  time.  I  know  what  he's  done.  Didn't  he  leave 
Salome  ?  Then  didn't  he  get  engaged  to  that  other  girl  ? 
Then  didn't  he  come  back  here  and  jilt  the  other  girl, 
and  so  marry  Salome  out  of  hand  ?  It  beats  me  that  you 
can  stand  up  for  him." 

"  You  don't  understand,"  said  Mrs.  Gerry. 

"  No,  that's  a  fact,  I  don't  understand.  But  one  thing 
I'm  mighty  sure  of,  and  that  is  that  the  time  '11  come  when 
she'll  see  that  man  as  he  really  is.  He's  got  something 
about  him  that  makes  folks  like  him,  I  know  that  very  well. 
But  I'm  not  going  to  talk  of  him  any  more  to-night.  I 
don't  know  when  I've  mentioned  him  before." 

When  he  helped  Mrs.  Gerry  from  the  carriage  in  front  of 
the  dark  little  house  on  the  ledge  where  she  still  lived,  he 
stood  by  his  horse  instead  of  entering  the  buggy  immedi- 
ately. 

"  Mrs.  Gerry,"  he  said.  Then  he  stopped.  She  waited 
beside  him.  "  Mrs.  Gerry,  I  want  you  to  think  as  well  of 
me  as  you  can.  I'd  rather  you'd  think  well  of  me  than  any 
other  woman  I  know,  except  one.  Some  way  I  ain't  my- 
self any  more.  I  don't  care  for  anything,  really — I  didn't 
know  I  was  so  weak." 

"  Do  try  to  overcome  this." 

Mrs.  Gerry  looked  at  the  tall,  strong  figure  beside  her. 
She  repeated  her  words  with  an  almost  tender  emphasis. 

"  You  needn't  think  I'm  whining  round  to  other  people," 
he  exclaimed,  with  some  fierceness.  "And  I  know  you 


250  OUT   OF   STEP 

mean  well  when  you  tell  me  to  overcome  it.  Only  I  can't 
do  it." 

"  Yes,  you  can  ;  but  it  will  take  time." 

"  It  '11  take  all  my  life.  Is  she  coming  out  here  for  the 
summer  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"Then  I'll  clear  out.  I  wqfi't  run  the  risk  of  meeting 
her.  That's  more  than  I  could  endure." 

"  But  your  farm,  Walter — " 

"Oh,  I'll  let  that;  I'll  do  something.    Well,  good-night." 

He  put  his  foot  on  the  step.     Then  he  turned  back. 

"  Shake  hands  with  me,  Mrs.  Gerry.  I'm  always  ever  so 
much  better  for  seeing  you.  You  brace  me  up.  Good-night." 

He  wrung  the  woman's  hand.  He  jumped  into  the  car- 
riage and  drove  away. 

Mrs.  Gerry  went  into  the  empty  house.  She  fumbled 
through  the  kitchen  to  the  shelf  where  the  lamps  stood  and 
lighted  one.  Then  she  sat  down  and  looked  around  the 
solitary  room. 

"  It's  no  use  trying  to  find  out  why  things  are  so,"  she 
was  thinking.  "And  it  isn't  necessary  for  us  to  know, 
either.  We  can  just  live  along,  one  day  at  a  time ;  and 
have  faith  in  Him — have  faith  in  Him." 

Her  face  relaxed  from  its  setness  as  she  repeated  that 
phrase,  for  the  phrase  meant  something  to  her. 

She  had  taken  off  her  gloves  and  was  slowly  smoothing 
them  as  they  lay  on  her  knee.  She  was  glad  she  had  come 
home  to-night.  She  could  not  stay  at  the  hotel  with 
Salome ;  and  the  child  was  so  happy  she  did  not  need  her. 
If  she  had  needed  her — here  the  woman's  face  melted  still 
more. 

"  Salome  is  living  her  life  now,"  she  was  thinking.  "  I've 
lived  mine.  I'm  getting  old.  I'm  not  for  myself  any 
more.  I'm  just  Salome's  mother  now.  And  the  child  loves 
me  so  much.  That's  the  sweetness  there  is  left  for  me. 
There  never  was  a  child  in  the  world  that  made  love  so 
sweet,  never." 


IN   THE   STUDIO  251 

Suddenly  Mrs.  Gerry  put  her  hands  over  her  face ;  there 
were  tears  in  her  eyes. 

She  had  not  taken  off  her  bonnet  nor  her  cloak.  The 
fire  had  long  since  gone  out  and  the  house  was  cold. 

Presently  she  began  to  feel  the  chill. 

She  rose  and  quickly  put  on  her  everyday  clothes.  She 
hurried  and  made  a  fire.  In  half  an  hour  she  was  sitting 
at  the  little  round  table  where  she  and  Salome  used  to  sit 
together.  She  was  drinking  some  tea  and  eating  a  piece 
of  toasted  bread.  She  was  thinking  that  if  Salome  ever 
kept  house  she  should  probably  live  with  her ;  but  she  was 
sure  that  she  was  too  old  to  try  to  learn  to  live  in  hotels. 

Perhaps  the  tea  and  the  warmth  cheered  her.  When  she 
rose  to  wash  her  plate  and  cup  and  saucer  she  was  looking 
forward  to  the  Saturday  when  Salome  would  be  with  her 
for  two  days ;  and  she  was  reproving  herself  for  those  tears. 
She  dared  not  think  much  about  the  tears,  however,  for 
she  might  find  it  impossible  to  keep  more  from  coming. 

In  Boston,  Salome  had  hurried  away  from  the  station, 
going  up  the  street  with  that  carriage  which  is  so  aptly  de- 
scribed as  "walking  upon  air." 

If  she  had  thought  of  the  matter  she  would  have  thought 
that  she  really  did  not  need  the  support  of  the  earth  for 
her  feet.  She  could  have  flown  easily  enough — only  it  was 
not  the  custom  to  fly. 

She  was  somewhat  sad,  as  in  her  mind  she  went  with  her 
mother  into  the  country  and  arrived  at  the  cottage  where 
no  one  awaited  her.  But  this  sadness  was  only  sufficient 
to  bring  into  greater  relief  the  abounding  joy  in  her  heart. 
And  on  Saturday  she  should  be  with  her  mother  again. 
She  and  Randolph.  She  wished  that  she  could  persuade 
her  mother  to  live  with  her  all  the  time ;  but  since  she 
could  not — 

She  walked  on,  finding  a  delightful  exhilaration  in  mere 
movement.  She  had  known  that  she  could  be  very  happy, 
but  she  had  not,  after  all,  imagined  anything  at  once  so 
subtle  and  so  sufficient. 


252  OUT    OF    STEP 

Randolph  had  gone  to  New  York,  but  he  would  be  back 
before  dinner.  If  she  hurried  she  could  reach  the  Albany 
station  in  time  to  meet  him. 

She  went  on  still  faster.  The  train  was  just  coming  in. 
She  stood  at  the  entrance,  where  she  could  see  the  stream 
of  people  that  began  to  pour  along  from  the  cars.  She 
waited  eagerly,  but  standing  perfectly  still,  her  furs  held 
closely  about  her  against  the  keen  wind  that  rushed  through 
the  place.  She  did  not  notice  how  nearly  every  one  gave 
her  a  glance  of  interest — a  kind  of  light  glance,  as  of  pleas- 
ure in  the  sight  of  her. 

There  he  was.  She  made  a  step  forward,  then  restrained 
herself,  for  Moore  was  not  alone.  A  man  with  a  serious, 
incisive  sort  of  a  face  was  beside  him  and  talking  with  him. 

Salome  knew  immediately  that  it  was  Dr.  Jennings,  the 
surgeon  whom  the  country  physician  had  summoned  when 
Moore  had  been  injured.  She  had  not  seen  him  since  that 
time,  and  that  time  now  seemed  years  ago  to  her,  there  had 
been  so  much  happiness  crowded  into  the  months  since. 

Moore  was  not  expecting  to  see  his  wife  at  the  station, 
and  now,  as  she  looked  again  at  the  surgeon,  she  shrank 
from  meeting  him.  She  had  been  conscious  of  a  certain 
hostility,  not  in  his  bearing,  but  in  himself.  She  had  not 
liked  the  way  his  eyes  had  probed  her,  as  if  the  glance  had 
been  one  of  his  keenest  instruments.  Now  she  was  aware 
of  a  distinct  distrust,  and  of  a  distinct  wish  that  Randolph 
should  not  know  that  man.  But  at  the  same  time  she 
knew  that  these  feelings  were  silly,  and  she  made  an  effort 
to  stifle  them.  She  could  not  quite  resolve  to  turn  away 
and  not  meet  her  husband,  though  he  was  not  alone.  While 
she  was  trying  to  resolve  to  do  so  Moore  saw  her,  his  face 
grew  radiant,  and  he  lifted  his  hat. 

"There's  my  wife  now,"  he  said,  quickly,  to  his  compan- 
ion. "  Come,  let  me  present  you." 

"  Where  ?"  asked  Dr.  Jennings.  "  Do  you  mean  that 
lady  who  is  smiling  at  you  ?" 

"  Yes ;  of  course.     Come !" 


IN    THE    STUDIO  253 

"  But  did  you  marry  her  ?"  inquired  the  surgeon,  in  a 
surprise  he  did  not  try  to  conceal,  and  with  a  stress  on  the 
final  pronoun. 

Moore  turned  towards  him.  There  was  a  little  haughti- 
ness in  his  manner  as  he  said : 

"  Certainly ;  I  married  Miss  Gerry." 

"Do  pardon  me,"  the  other  rejoined,  hastily.  "But  I 
lost  all  track  of  you,  though  you  were  such  an  interesting 
'case.'  You  see  I  went  abroad  very  soon,  and  have  only 
returned  a  week  ago.  It  will  give  me  a  great  deal  of  pleas- 
ure to  be  presented  to  Mrs.  Moore." 

The  two  men  approached  Salome,  who  had  remained 
standing  in  the  same  place. 

She  was  slightly  more  pale  than  usual  when  Dr.  Jennings 
made  his  bow  to  her,  and  there  was  something  like  resent- 
ment in  her  heart  when  she  met  his  gaze,  which  was  coldly 
questioning. 

But  his  manner  was  suave  enough  as  he  stood  a  few  mo- 
ments talking  commonplaces. 

When  he  had  left  them  neither  Salome  nor  Moore  spoke 
directly.  They  walked  out  into  the  street  in  the  direction 
of  their  hotel.  The  gladness  in  the  woman's  heart  was 
chilled,  and  she  was  trying  to  recover  the  warmth  and  joy 
with  which  she  had  started  out. 

As  for  Moore,  he  looked  down  inquiringly  at  the  face 
near  him.  He  was  groping  after  some  solution  of  this  sud- 
den discomfort.  He  was  conscious  also  of  a  suspicion  of 
impatience.  He  was  so  happy  to  be  back  again  that  he 
could  not  bear  to  come  into  any  cloud. 

It  was  he  who  spoke  first. 

"  Odd,  wasn't  it,"  he  said,  "  that  I  should  happen  to  run 
upon  that  fellow  ?" 

"  Yes,"  was  the  reply,  "  but  I  don't  know  how  you  could 
know  him." 

"  Oh,  as  to  that,  I  didn't  know  him.  How  should  I  ?  It 
was  at  Springfield  that  he  came  into  my  car.  He  had  a 
chair  just  across  the  aisle  from  me.  I  didn't  notice  him  at 


254  OUT  OF  STEP 

first.  I  thought  he  was  reading,  and  I  was  reading  too. 
All  at  once  I  became  conscious  that  somebody  was  staring 
at  me.  I  had  a  sort  of  uneasy  feeling  as  one  will  have 
when  some  one  is  fixedly  gazing  at  one.  Why,  Salome,  am 
I  paining  you  in  any  way  ?" 

"No,  no;  go  on.  But  Dr.  Jennings  doesn't  strike  me  as 
a  man  with  a  human  heart ;  he  is  just  a  piece  of  mechan- 
ism, with  the  unerring  skill  of  mechanism,  I  suppose." 

"Well,  I  don't  know  about  his  heart;  he  has  mind 
enough,  anyway.  His  mind  is  as  sharp  as  a  knife,"  said 
Moore.  "  I  wondered  why  he  found  me  so  interesting.  I 
tried  to  keep  on  reading,  but  I  couldn't  do  it.  Still  I  did 
manage  to  continue  to  appear  to  keep  on.  After  a  few  mo- 
ments I  heard  him  say,  '  I  beg  your  pardon.  But  were  you 
injured  on  the  head  some  months  ago,  in  the  country  ?'  At 
that  I  was  interested  enough,  you  may  believe.  Salome" — 
suddenly  stopping  in  his  narrative  and  looking  down  ten- 
derly at  the  woman  on  his  arm — "  you  must  not  have  any 
more  feeling  as  regards  that  time.  Really  I  forbid  it;  I 
won't  stand  it.  You  are  my  wife  now.  Won't  that  content 
you  ?  It  ought.  Let  the  past  get  itself  buried  any  way  it 
can.  You  are  mine  now.  If  you  were  not,  I  should  be  the 
most  miserable  creature  in  the  world." 

"  You  really  think  so  ?"  with  a  somewhat  tremulous  smile. 

"  I  know  it.  And  what  is  more,  you  can't  help  knowing 
that  I  know  it.  Don't  you  think  you  are  a  very  exacting 
person,  Mrs.  Moore?" 

"  Yes ;  I'm  sure  of  it.  And  I'm  not  going  to  keep  this 
up.  But,  Randolph,  I  do  want  to  be  a  blessing  to  you — 
you  just  thought  I  was  a  blessing  to  you,  didn't  you  ?" 
looking  up  at  him. 

"  I  think  I  intimated  as  much." 

"Very  well.  Now  go  on  with  your  little  story.  What 
did  that  horrible  doctor  say  to  you  ?" 

"  Perhaps  he  is  horrible  ;  I'll  own  that  there  seems  some- 
thing a  trifle  uncanny  about  him.  I  acknowledged  to  him 
that  I  did  get  a  hard  blow.  Yes,  he  said,  he  knew  me  di- 


IN   THE    STUDIO  255 

rectly,  and  he  was  interested  to  ask  how  I  came  out,  and 
all  that.  I  told  him  I  came  out  all  right;  and  would  he 
kindly  tell  me  who  he  was  ?  He  said  his  name  was  Jen- 
nings. Then  I  knew  that  he  must  be  the  man  who  dealt 
with  my  skull  that  time.  I  tried  to  express  my  gratitude  to 
him,  but  he  said  there  was  no  occasion,  that  it  was  all  in 
the  way  of  business ;  and  he  had  been  greatly  interested  in 
my  case.  He  called  it  a  very  striking  instance  of — well, 
I'll  think  of  the  word  in  a  minute.  It's  a  word  I  never 
heard  before,  and  I  wouldn't  care  to  remember  it  only  it 
was  applied  to  my  own  skull,  you  see,  so  that  makes  it  seem 
important." 

Moore  laughed  in  such  a  happy  and  infectious  way  that 
Salome  joined  him.  His  healthy,  wholesome  nature,  his 
warmth  of  temperament,  his  love  for  her  seemed  now  to 
Salome  more  dear  than  ever.  She  could  hear  him  relate 
the  remainder  of  his  interview  with  that  surgeon  without 
any  of  that  uncomfortable  emotion  which  she  had  just  ex- 
perienced. Besides,  perhaps  it  was  best  for  her  to  be  able 
to  hear  that  time  mentioned,  and  to  speak  of  it. 

"  What  else  did  he  say  ?"  she  asked. 

"  Not  much.     He  asked  me  if  I  was  married." 

"  I'm  sure  he  thought  you  married  Miss  Nunally,"  said 
Salome. 

"  What  makes  you  think  that  ?"  inquired  Moore,  quickly. 

"  I  don't  know,  exactly.  Only  he  was  greatly  surprised 
when  he  saw  me.  He  had  expected  to  see  some  one  else." 

"  Oh,  how  sharp  women  are  !"  exclaimed  Moore. 


XVI 

REFORMATION  ? 

"  You  ought  to  be  thankful  that  we  are  sharp,"  remarked 
Salome,  now  in  high  spirits,  "  since  men  are  so  dull."  Then, 
with  more  earnestness,  "  Even  you  have  been  so  dull  that 
you  haven't  noticed  that  I'm  turning  over  a  new  leaf.  It's 
so  humiliating  for  a  human  being  to  be  mere  driftwood  in 
the  current  of  natural  proclivities." 

Moore  glanced  seriously  down  at  his  companion.  He 
had  never  heard  her  speak  like  that  before.  He  said 
nothing,  and  she  went  on  now  with  something  like  solem- 
nity : 

"  I  have  an  idea  that  words  take  away  from  action,  some- 
how ;  don't  you  think  that  they  do  ?  When  you  have  talked 
a  great  deal  about  doing  a  thing,  you  have  a  sort  of  com- 
fortable feeling  as  if  you  had  done  it." 

She  was  not  a  woman  much  given  to  making  resolutions 
— at  least,  not  since  she  had  outgrown  the  morbid  physical 
conditions  of  her  girlhood. 

She  could  not  tell  why  the  sight  of  that  surgeon  had  in 
some  way  stung  her  with  a  new  wish  to  control  her  own 
being,  f  A  good  resolution  always  carries  a  certain  com- 
forting power  like  a  step  in  the  right  direction.  v^But  it  was 
not  alone  the  meeting  with  Dr.  Jennings. 

It  was  a  look  which  she  surprised  upon  her  husband's 
face.  He  did  not  know  that  she  saw  it.  Perhaps  it  had 
all  the  greater  effect  because  of  that  fact. 

It  was  after  he  had  been  talking  to  her  about  truth.  He 
had  left  her.  A  few  moments  later  she  had  gone  down  to 
the  public  parlor  for  a  book  she  had  been  reading  there. 


REFORMATION  ? 


257 


She  was  startled  to  see  Moore  near  the  fireplace.  There 
happened  to  be  no  one  else  in  the  room.  Her  foot-fall  had 
made  no  sound  on  the  carpet.  She  remained  motionless, 
gazing  at  him.  He  was  standing  with  his  hands  in  his 
pockets,  his  head  somewhat  bent,  in  an  attitude  very  un- 
usual with  him. 

Salome's  heart  contracted  with  a  feeling  different  from 
any  she  had  ever  known.  She  knew  her  husband  was 
thinking  of  her,  painfully,  bitterly,  with  discouragement. 

She  did  not  enter  the  room.  She  went  silently  up  the 
stairs  again  and  sat  down  at  a  window  of  her  own  cham- 
ber. She  should  see  Randolph  when  he  went  out.  In 
a  short  time  she  saw  him  walking  down  the  street.  He 
moved  as  one  preoccupied.  She  kept  her  eyes  upon  him 
as  long  as  he  was  in  sight.  Then  she  rose  from  her  place 
and  walked  about  aimlessly  for  a  moment.  Her  face  now 
was  more  like  the  face  of  that  girl  who  had  been  sent  South 
for  health. 

She  held  her  hands  tightly  pressed  together. 

Suddenly  she  stopped  in  her  walk  and  knelt  down  in 
front  of  a  chair,  pressing  her  face  into  a  velvet  cushion. 

She  was  quiet  so  long  that  one  might  have  thought  that 
she  had  fallen  asleep. 

When  she  did  rise  she  walked  to  a  table  and  took  up  a 
Bible  lying  there.  She  turned  its  leaves  slowly,  but  she 
did  not  appear  to  be  reading — in  fact,  she  did  not  read  a 
word.  The  mere  sense  that  she  was  holding  the  Bible 
from  which  her  mother  read  every  day,  and  in  which  she 
used  to  read  faithfully — this  mere  sense  was  all  that  she  re- 
quired just  now.  It  took  her  back. 

At  last  her  lips  moved. 

"  I  don't  see  why  I — myself — don't  care.  Why  don't  I, 
of  myself,  have  the  wish  to  speak  the  truth  ?  What  is  it 
that  they  call  being  upright,  anyway  ?  Does  it  make  any 
difference  ?  Some  people  seem  to  think  so  much  of  it.  Yes, 
and  some  people  think  so  much  of  music,  or  of  dress,  or  of 
this  thing  or  that.  There's  Portia  Nunally ;  she  tells  lies 


258  OUT   OF  STEP 

sometimes,  I'm  sure.  And  she  was  able  to  think  of  marry- 
ing-that  Major  Root.  She  was  going  to  sell  herself.  Isn't 
she  as  bad  as  I  am  ?  What  is  it  about  me  that  makes  my 
mother  and  Randolph  so  worried  ?" 

She  stopped  in  her  talk  to  herself  and  looked  about  her 
distressfully. 

s  "  Surely  I  love  him  well  enough,"  she  exclaimed,  "  to  be 
^anything  he  wants  me  to  be.  I'm  going  to  tell  the  truth 
about  everything,  even  the  slightest  little  thing.  I'm  going 
to  do  it  for  him — just  as  I  would  learn  to  play  the  tambou- 
rine or  anything  else.  I  didn't  know  but  that  he  might  get 
over  feeling  this  way;  and  I  didn't  know  but  that  I  might 
get  over  feeling  my  way,  and  get  to  caring  for  the  truth. 

"  Perhaps  it  would  be  a  good  plan  to  pray  in  regard  to 
this.  Somehow  it  doesn't  seem  necessary  to  pray  when  you 
are  happy.  God  appears  to  be  taking  care  of  you  then  with- 
out any  interference.  But  I  shall  pray." 

She  went  back  to  the  chair  and  knelt  down  again.  She 
clasped  her  hands  before  her  as  she  had  formerly  done 
when  she  had  prayed  morning  and  night.  She  made  her  pe- 
tition aloud ;  it  was  more  real  to  her,  for  that  was  the  way  she 
had  done  in  the  old  farm-house,  when  prayer  had  been  so 
much  to  her. 

To  her  great  surprise  her  mood  instantly  became  fervidly 
and  reverently  beseeching.  She  had  of  late  only  put  up 
frequent  and  almost  involuntary  prayers  for  her  husband. 
\  She  might  be  said  to  be  praying  for  him  all  the  time.j 
N  Her  asking  of  God  now  was  simple  in  the  extreme.  Any 
one  listening  to  her  without  seeing  her  would  have  said  he 
was  hearing  a  devout  child. 

"  O  Lord,"  she  said,  "  you  must  help  me  to  tell  the  truth. 
You  must  make  a  lie  odious  to  me,  for  a  lie  is  odious  to  my 
husband  and  my  mother.  They  want  me  to  be  truthful. 
And  since  I  can't  seem  to  care  anything  about  it  myself,  I've 
made  up  my  mind  that  I'm  going  to  be  truthful  just  to  please 
them.  Lord,  I  wish  you  would  forgive  me  because  the  mo- 
tive isn't  right,  but  I  can't  help  it — I  can't  help  it;  so  I'm 


REFORMATION  ?  259 

just  going  to  be  good  to  please  them.  Lord,  be  kind  to  me, 
and  don't  let  me  make  my  husband  unhappy.  I  love  him  so ! 
I  love  him  so  !" 

She  did  not  say  "  Amen."  Her  voice  merely  stopped. 
Perhaps  it  was  because  of  the  very  simplicity  of  the  words 
that  her  petition  sounded  so  pathetic.  It  was  like  a  heart 
unconsciously  giving  utterance  to  itself. 

She  remained  quiet  for  some  time  after  her  voice  ceased 
to  be  heard  in  the  room.  At  last  she  rose.  She  tried  to 
settle  down  to  some  work,  and  she  finally  succeeded.  That 
day  made  a  mark  upon  her.  She  began  to  reckon  things  in 
her  mind  from  that  day.  Often  when  she  was  with  her  hus- 
band she  would  turn  and  gaze  at  him  searchingly  but  fur- 
tively. She  was  fearing  to  see  upon  his  face  that  expression 
which  she  had  surprised  upon  it  in  the  hotel  parlor.  But  if 
that  look  should  come  there  she  wished  to  know  it. 

Once,  as  the  two  sat  together  of  an  evening,  Moore  glanced 
up  from  his  paper,  and  met  her  eyes  thus  fixed  upon  him. 

"  I  was  examining  you  for  some  sign  of  a  gnawing  grief, 
an  inward  dissatisfaction,"  she  said. 

She  spoke  with  so  much  impressiveness  that  Moore 
dropped  his  paper  and  gazed  at  her. 

"  Good  heavens  !"  he  exclaimed.  "  Do  you  want  me  to 
have  a  gnawing  grief  and  an  inward  dissatisfaction,  Sa- 
lome ?" 

"  Oh  no  !  no  !" 

Moore  rumpled  his  hair  and  laughed.  Then  he  took  his 
turn,  and  gazed  scrutinizingly  at  his  wife. 

"  May  I  inquire,"  he  began,  presently,  "  if  your  liver  is  in 
excellent  working  order  ?" 

"  It  isn't  my  liver,  it's  my  moral  nature,"  she  answered, 
with  such  undoubted  seriousness  that  Moore  directly  be- 
came serious  himself.  But  he  did  not  speak. 

"  I'm  afraid  my  moral  nature  has  been  a  great  trial  to 
you,"  she  said. 

"  It  is  you  who  say  that,"  he  answered. 

"  But  I  care  about  you,"  she  continued,  "  and  you  care 


260  OUT  OF   STEP 

for  truth,  dear  Randolph  " — here  Salome  paused,  and  her 
lips  were  a  trifle  unsteady. 

Moore  took  one  of  her  hands  and  held  it  closely.  But  he 
said  nothing. 

She  began  again  : 

"  I  want  to  tell  you  that  I'm  not  so  stupid  but  that  I've 
known  and  felt  in  these  months  with  you  that  your  life  is 
really  sweet  and  upright.  You  always  turn  towards  the  up- 
right course.  You  are  not  preachy  about  it,  and  you  don't 
pose  for  it.  Mr.  Dunn  was  telling  me  the  other  day  about 
what  he  called  the  'W.  and  M.  deal ' — perhaps  you'll  tell  me 
what  a  deal  is  some  time — that  was  before  you  had  that 
money  from  your  uncle,  you  know.  He  said  that  if  you  had 
told  just  a  little  lie  then  you  would  have  netted  ten  thou- 
sand dollars  at  least.  He  said  he  should  have  told  the  fib ; 
but  you  never  even  thought  of  considering  whether  you 
should  or  not.  He  said  you  were  the  right  stuff,  but  you 
didn't  pretend.  That's  it,  Randolph ;  you  don't  pretend. 
That's  one  of  your  charms.  Now  I  should  have  told  that  lie. 
I  shouldn't  have  thought  much  about  it ;  or,  if  I  had,  I 
shouldn't  have  thought  it  would  hurt  anybody." 

Salome  ceased  speaking.  After  a  while  Moore,  who  was 
still  holding  the  hand  he  had  taken,  asked,  in  a  low 
voice : 

"  Is  that  all  ?" 

"  No ;  or,  at  least,  it's  nearly  all.  The  thing  I  set  out  to 
tell  you  is  that  I  can't  live  with  you  and  not  feel  your  life ; 
I  think  that's  what  I  mean.  You  are  so  much  better  than 
I  am.  You — " 

"  Salome !" 

"  Don't  interrupt  me.  You  are  as  warm-hearted  as  pos- 
sible, but  you  don't  just  follow  your  heart  as  I  do.  I've 
noticed  that.  Is  that  because  you're  a  man  ?  You  needn't 
smile  at  me.  What  I  meant  really  to  tell  you  when  I  began 
is  that  I  haven't  prevaricated,  not  the  least  little  bit,  for 
more  than  ten  days.  I've  been  watching  myself.  There 
are  every  so  many  small  ways  in  which  it's  so  easy  not  to 


REFORMATION?  261 

tell  quite  the  truth,  don't  you  know  ?     I  don't  mean  what 
you  might  call  society  falsehoods  now.     But  I  notice  peo-  . 
pie  do  lie  a  good  deal,  when  you  come  really  to   think 
about  it." 

There  was  such  a  naive  flavor  in  this  last  remark  that 
Moore  could  not  help  smiling,  though  his  eyes  were  ear- 
nest. He  thought  that  he  had  never  imagined  any  one 
so  frank  as  Salome  could  be  —  an  entirely  unconscious 
frankness. 

"  You  mean,"  he  said,  with  a  slight  hesitation,  "  that  you 
are  beginning  to  see  the  beauty  of  truth  ?" 

"  No  ;  I  don't  mean  that  at  all." 

Moore's  expressive  face  changed  and  clouded,  in  spite  of 
his  efforts  to  prevent  it. 

She  withdrew  her  hand.  She  leaned  back  in  her  chair, 
gazing  down  at  him.  Her  eyes  were  full  of  light.  She 
seemed  to  make  her  glance  penetrate  to  her  husband's  soul. 
There  was  something  in  her  face  that  made  the  man  more 
deeply  conscious  of  her  love  than  he  had  ever  been. 

"  I  mean,"  she  said  at  last,  "that  I  think  I  have  found 
out  that  I  love  you  well  enough  to  be  truthful  just  because 
you  want  me  to  be.  That  isn't  much  to  do  for  you,  is  it  ?" 

"  Oh,  Salome !" 

Moore's  voice  was  hardly  audible,  but  his  wife  heard  it. 
[The  intent  look  between  the  two  was  much  more  than  a 
caress.     It  was  Moore  who  spoke  now. 

"  And  by-and-by  you  will  come  to  love  truth  for  its  own 
sake." 

"  I  don't  know ;  I  can't  tell  about  that.  I  suppose  wom- 
en are  much  too  personal,  aren't  they,  Randolph  ?  I  know 
very  well  that  it  is  principle  one  ought  to  consider.  But  I 
can't  do  that ;  not  even  for  you.  Now  there  is  my  moth- 
er— " 

"  There's  a  woman  who  considers  principle,"  interrupted 
Moore. 

"  Yes.  I  was  going  to  say  that,  well  as  I  love  her,  it  was 
not  enough  to  make  me  feel  this  way.  I  wonder  if  God  is 


262  OUT   OF    STEP 

pleased  with  such  a  love  as  I  give  you.  Do  you  think  He 
is  ?  Do  you  think  He  blames  me  ?  Only  He  can  really  know 
the  strength  of  it.  Will  it  tire  you,  as  time  goes  on,  to  be 
loved  so  much  ?" 

It  was  a  few  weeks  after  this  evening  that  a  messenger- 
boy  came  with  a  note  from  Mrs.  Darrah,  who  was  still  at 
the  Vendome.  The  note  stated  that  the  writer  of  it  was 
nearly  bored  to  death,  and  would  Mrs.  Moore  take  pity  on 
her? 

Salome  hesitated.  She  did  not  much  like  to  be  in  Mrs. 
Darrah's  presence.  Too  many  unpleasant  memories  were 
evoked.  And  when  she  was  with  this  lady  she  was  liable 
to  meet  Portia  Nunally. 

The  latter  had  adopted  the  best  possible  manner  towards 
Salome — the  ignoring  of  the  past. 

Though  Salome  hesitated,  after  a  while  she  started  out 
to  walk  across  the  Common.  It  was  now  April,  and  one  of 
the  mild  days  of  that  month.  The  returning  warmth  did 
not  fail  to  bring  joy  with  it.  She  sauntered  slowly,  stopping 
upon  any  pretext.  She  paused  to  watch  two  sparrows 
righting. 

Raising  her  eyes  as  the  combatants  parted  and  flew 
away,  her  glanee  encountered  that  of  a  man  who  was  lean- 
ing against  a  tree  with  an  open  newspaper  in  his  hand. 

He  was  a  man  past  middle  life,  with  a  thin,  keen,  cold 
face.  It  was  plain  that  he  had  been  watching  her  as  she 
had  been  watching  the  sparrows. 

He  gravely  raised  his  hat. 

In  the  first  instant  of  confusion  Salome  did  not  recognize 
him,  though  she  was  aware  that  she  knew  the  face  well. 
Then  the  knowledge  flashed  upon  her.  It  was  Dr.  Jen- 
nings. 

Her  impulse  was  to  hurry  on,  but  she  did  not  quite  like 
to  do  that,  as  the  gentleman  seemed  inclined  to  come  for- 
ward and  speak  to  her.  He  did  come  forward  immediate- 
ly and  quickly,  but  still  somehow  with  an  appearance  of 
leisure. 


REFORMATION"  ?  263 

"  You  look  as  if  you  were  enjoying  this  lovely  day,  Mrs. 
Moore,"  he  said,  much  the  same  as  any  ordinary  man  would 
have  spoken. 

Salome  made  an  effort,  and  replied  that  she  was  always 
glad  when  summer  was  approaching.  This  extremely  com- 
monplace talk  about  the  seasons  need  not  have  affected  Sa- 
lome unpleasantly.  She  was  alarmed  that  she  should  begin 
to  feel,  as  she  expressed  herself  afterwards  to  her  husband, 
like  a  fly  impaled  upon  a  pin,  and  wriggling  and  buzzing  for 
the  benefit  of  the  person  who  has  stuck  the  pin  through  the 
insect. 

"  Only,"  as  she  assured  Moore,  she  "  did  not  wriggle  in  the 
least ;  she  was  just  as  calm  as  if  she  had  not  felt  that  way. 
But,"  she  added,  "  I  thought  I  couldn't  bear  it  when,  as  I 
started  to  go  on  down  the  walk,  he  came  and  placed  him- 
self beside  me  and  said  that  he  hoped  I  would  allow  him  to 
accompany  me,  as  we  seemed  to  be  going  in  the  same  direc- 
tion. We  didn't  speak  a  word  for  a  few  moments,  though  I 
was  trying  as  hard  as  I  could  to  think  of  something  to  say 
that  would  not  be  too  frivolous  nor  too  sensible.  At  last  I 
gave  up  trying ;  and  he  had  to  speak  first. 

"  He  asked  me  if  I  enjoyed  living  in  Boston,  and  I  told 
him  that  I  did.  Then  he  smiled  and  remarked  that  I  had 
the  appearance  of  enjoying  life  anywhere.  I  was  very  well, 
wasn't  I  ?  Yes,  I  thanked  him,  I  was  very  well.  Then  we 
came  to  a  branch  in  the  path.  I  wished  that  I  knew  which 
way  he  was  going,  so  that  I  could  go  the  other  way.  But,  of 
course,  I  couldn't  guess  that.  However,  he  lifted  his  hat  in 
that  manner  he  has  which  is  enough  to  chill  the  marrow  in 
one's  bones,  said  that  it  had  been  a  great  pleasure  to  meet 
me  and  'Good-morning,  Mrs.  Moore.'  I  watched  him  walk 
off.  I  was  glad  he  was  walking  away  from  me.  I  had  real- 
ly begun  to  shiver.  I  suppose  he  is  one  of  the  most  excel- 
lent men  for  cutting  and  sawing  people  that  there  is  going, 
isn't  he  Randolph  ?" 

"  He  has  that  reputation,"  answered  Moore,  "  and  you 
and  I  certainly  ought  to  be  grateful  to  him." 


264  OUT  OF  STEP 

"  Oh,  I'm  grateful  beyond  words  for  his  skill,  and  I  hope 
he  has  been  paid  in  money  for  that,"  was  the  response, 
with  more  bitterness  than  Moore  had  ever  heard  in  her 
voice. 

He  looked  at  her  in  some  surprise. 

"  Don't  reprove  me,"  she  said,  smiling  at  him,  "  because 
I  can't  help  the  effect  he  has  upon  me. '  I  think  I  feel  as  if 
I  were  being  vivisected  without  being  allowed  an  anesthet- 
ic. And  the  sight  of  him  makes  me  want  to  prove  to  him 
tEat  I'm  not  the  degraded  wretch  he  thinks  me.  Boston 
isn't  large  enough  for  him  and  me.  On  the  other  side  of 
the  Common  I  was  lucky  enough  to  meet  Mrs.  Bradford. 
As  we  were  not  far  from  her  house,  she  quite  insisted  upon 
my  going  home  with  her.  I  saw  my  portrait  again.  It's 
just  a  very  little  different  from  what  it  was  when  you  saw 
it.  She  said  she  shouldn't  let  it  go  out  of  her  hands  at 
present.  She's  just  a  bit  odd  about  that  portrait." 

Having  said  this,  Salome  reflectively  folded  and  unfolded 
her  handkerchief,  gazing  down  at  it.  She  and  her  husband 
were  in  their  rooms  at  their  hotel. 

Moore  began  to  be  very  curious  concerning  that  picture. 

"  The  face  is  a  real  little  Puritan  face  now,"  said  Salome. 

Moore  rose. 

"  I  don't  wish  it  to  be  that,"  he  said,  with  some  indigna- 
tion. "  I  want  it  to  be  as  I  saw  it  last.  If  she  keeps  it, 
she  will  be  continually  touching  it.  It  must  be  as  you  are 
now — sensitive,  happy,  enchanting." 

"  Oh,  thank  you,  Randolph,"  with  a  brilliant  smile. 

"  I'll  go  there  now,"  he  said.  "  I  won't  have  that  por- 
trait subject  to  any  woman's  whims,  even  though  that 
woman  be  Mrs.  Bradford." 

Salome  seemed  troubled.  "  Don't  go  until  I've  told  you 
that  I  hadn't  seen  the  last  of  Dr.  Jennings,"  she  said.  "  He 
was  at  Mrs.  Darrah's.  It  seems  he  is  an  old  acquaintance 
of  hers." 

The  speaker  shuddered. 

"  He  sat  there  and  made  very  pleasant  and  perfectly 


REFORMATION  ?  265 

appropriate  remarks.  He  frequently  smiled.  Have  you 
ever  seen  him  smile,  Randolph  ?  ^ 

"  It  is  just  as  if  a  piece  of  polished  steel  should  suddenly 
scintillate.  It  was  all  I  could  do  to  keep  from  trembling 
with  fear  and  hate  when  he  smiled.  He  sees  right  through 
me,  and  he  is  glad  every  time  he  comes  upon  a  weakness 
or  a  fault.  He  hasn't  any  weaknesses  or  faults.  Why 
should  he  have  ?  He  isn't  flesh  and  blood.  He  is  some- 
thing that  despises  flesh  and  blood ;  anyway,  he  despises 
me.  Randolph,  do  you  know  that  he  makes  me  think  con- 
tinually when  he  is  in  my  presence  of  that  forgery,  and  of 
the  falsehoods  I  have  told,  and  that  I  can  never  reform, 
and,  worst  of  all,  that  in  the  end  you  will  be  unhappy  with 
me  ?  Every  time  I've  seen  that  man  I  begin  immediately 
to  realize  that  some  time  you'll  be  wretched  with  me ;  that 
you'll  curse  the  day  you  saw  me.  Let  me  be  just  as  melo- 
dramatic as  I  choose,  but  I  mean  all  I  say,  and  more  too. 
Dr.  Jennings  thinks  I'm  a  vile  creature,  and  he  knows  that 
you  will  come  to  grief  because  of  me." 

Salome  was  not  given  to  indulging  in  any  such  kind  of 
talk  as  this.  Her  nature  was  essentially  sweet  and  for- 
bearing. 

A  few  moments  later  Moore  was  on  his  way  to  Mrs.  Brad- 
ford's. He  was  uneasy.  He  did  not  like  to  recall  the  sur- 
geon's look  of  surprise  when  he  had  seen  Salome  that  day 
in  the  station.  But  Salome's  repulsion  was  of  no  conse- 
quence. I  Some  personalities  repelled,  and  some  attracted ; 
and  who  could  tell  why  it  was  so  ?  " 

He  was  shown  into  a  reception-room  at  the  Bradford 
home.  He  had  waited  but  a  moment  when  the  mistress 
of  the  house  entered. 

As  she  gave  him  her  hand,  she  said  : 

"  I'm  so  sorry,  Mr.  Moore."  She  hesitated,  and  then 
asked :  "  Do  you  wish  me  to  be  perfectly  frank  with  you  ? 
You  know  a  person  is  very  disagreeable  when  he  is  per- 
fectly frank." 

Moore  felt  somewhat  embarrassed  as  he  stood  before 


266  OUT   OF   STEP 

this  woman.  He  had  no  idea  how  much  his  wife  might 
have  confided  to  her.  His  wife  was  so  strangely  given  to 
making  confessions  sometimes.  He  could  wish  that  she 
had  not  that  proclivity. 

Even  while  the  young  man  thought  this,  he  could  not  but 
know  that  this  curious  openness  was  one  of  Salome's  strong- 
est charms;  it  seemed  such  a  contradiction,  and  it  made 
her  something  quite  out  of  the  ordinary. 

"  Well,  then,"  said  Mrs.  Bradford  at  last,  "  I  will  confess 
to  you  that  I  am  sorry  that  I  yielded  to  the  temptation  and 
tried  to  paint  Mrs.  Moore's  portrait." 

"  Because  you  think  you  have  not  succeeded  ?" 

"  No.  Don't  think  me  conceited  if  I  say  it  is  because  I 
think  I  have  succeeded  too  well." 

"  Oh  ?" 

Moore  uttered  the  exclamation  questioningly.  He  gazed 
with  a  bewildered  misgiving  at  his  companion. 

"  I  feel  haunted  by  a  foolish  fear,  as  if  I  had  assisted  at 
some  kind  of  a  betrayal,"  went  on  Mrs.  Bradford.  "  That 
may  be  a  womanish  notion.  Do  you  think  it  is  that  ?  But 
come  into  the  studio.  I  have  given  the  face  several  touches 
of  late.  Mrs.  Moore's  countenance  is  so  vividly  in  my 
mind  that  I  dare  to  put  a  brush  to  the  canvas  sometimes 
when  she  is  not  present.  I  have  changed  it  since  she  saw 
it  last,  and  two  or  three  times  since  you  saw  it.  Of  course 
portrait-painting,  if  you  really  care  for  it,  must  be  more  or 
less  of  a  psychological  study." 

As  she  finished  speaking,  Mrs.  Bradford  led  the  way  to 
the  studio. 

Moore  followed  her,  and  walked  immediately  to  the  easel. 
His  eager  expression  changed  indescribably  as  he  stood 
there. 

He  would  not  have  been  able  to  describe,  though  he  felt 
keenly,  the  subtle  difference  in  the  face  whose  eyes  were 
looking  directly  in  his  eyes. 

The  artist  stood  beside  him,  watching  him. 

Finally  he  turned  to  her. 


REFORMATION  ?  267 

"  It  is  much  more  than  beautiful,"  he  said ;  "  it  has 
charm — even  a  stranger  must  feel  that." 

Although  he  ceased  speaking,  it  appeared  as  if  he  had 
more  to  say.  After  a  moment's  pause,  he  continued :  "  It 
is  baffling,  bewildering." 

"  Is  she  not  so  ?"  inquired  Mrs.  Bradford,  in  a  low  voice. 
"  Do  you  not  still  find  her  so  ?  Pardon  me,  Mr.  Moore, 
but  if  I  talk  at  all  on  this  subject,  I  must  talk  openly.  I 
have  never  been  so  confused  as  since  I  began  this  work." 

"  I  can  believe  that,"  was  the  reply,  in  the  same  subdued 
tone  in  which  Mrs.  Bradford  had  spoken. 

There  was  much  more  that  Moore  would  have  liked  to 
say,  but  he  could  not.  It  seemed  to  him  that  it  would  be 
a  relief  to  speak  to  this  woman  from  his  very  heart ;  still 
he  could  not;  certainly  he  must  not,  if  Salome  had  not 
spoken. 

"  Has  Mrs.  Moore  talked  with  you  ?  Has  she  said  any- 
thing ?"  he  asked,  somewhat  vaguely. 

"  Oh  no,"  was  the  immediate  response.  "  Why  should 
she  ?" 

And  the  speaker's  thought  instantly  was  : 

"  Then  there  is  something." 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Moore,  glancing  at  the  woman  be- 
side him.  "  Yes,  I  do  know,  too,"  hastily.  "  Are  you  not 
aware  that  it  would  be  easy  to  confide  in  you  ?" 

Mrs.  Bradford  shook  her  head  smilingly. 

"  I  had,  as  I  worked,  a  strange  feeling  of  compunction," 
she  said ;  "  but  when  Mrs.  Moore's  mother  was  here  I  be- 
gan to  be  conscious  more  and  more  of  something  which  I 
could  not  define.'.' 

"  What  ?    Has  Mrs.  Gerry  seen  the  portrait  ?" 

"  Yes,  just  as  she  was  leaving  town.  She  said  she  did 
not  'think  it  was  right.'  For  some  reason,  Mr.  Moore,  I 
have  an  inclination  to  believe  in  her  conclusions.  I  think 
she  arrives  at  her  decisions  in  a  white  light,  if  I  may  speak 
thus.  You  understand  me  ?" 

"  Yes,  yes.    Her  mind  leaps  to  the  right,  pure  and  simple." 


268  OUT   OF    STEP 

Moore  spoke  with  unmistakable  emphasis. 

"  I  saw,"  said  Mrs.  Bradford,  "  that  she  felt  as  if  this 
portrait  was  not  only  a  kind  of  betrayal ;  it  was  also  a  sort 
of  arraignment.  Do  forgive  me,  Mr.  Moore.  I  know  those 
words  are  not  the  proper  ones  to  use,  but  I  have  none  which 
can  express  the  fine  shade  of  my  meaning." 

Moore  was  painfully  wondering  how  mere  pigments  upon 
canvas  could  so  express  the  weakness  of  Salome's  moral 
nature,  at  the  same  time  that  they  expressed  the  strength 
and  richness  and  faithfulness  of  what  might  be  called,  for 
lack  of  a  better  term,  her  emotional  nature. 

"  She  looks  so  happy,"  he  said,  under  his  breath. 

"  She  is  so  happy,"  said  Mrs.  Bradford. 

"  Thank  Heaven  for  that !"  exclaimed  Moore. 

Mrs.  Bradford  took  her  palette  and  a  large  brush.  She 
filled  the  brush  with  paint  indiscriminately  from  the  palette. 

She  looked  at  the  man  who  was  still  gazing  at  the  picture. 

"  It  is  for  you  to  give  me  permission,"  she  said. 

He  waited  before  he  answered.     At  last  he  said  : 

"  I  suppose  it  is  best." 

But  still  the  artist  hesitated.  In  an  instant  she  stepped 
forward  and  drew  the  brush  broadly  and  quickly  over  the 
glowing  face  of  the  portrait.  Almost  at  the  same  time 
Moore  caught  her  arm  ;  but  he  was  too  late.  He  was  quite 
pale. 

"  Good  God !"  he  said,  in  a  whisper. 

He  felt  almost  as  if  it  were  Salome  herself  who  had  been 
wounded — mortally  hurt  before  his  eyes. 

Mrs.  Bradford  also  was  pale.  The  hand  with  which  she 
put  down  the  brush  now  trembled  slightly. 

"  Did  you  not  mean  that  I  might  do  this  ?"  she  asked, 
after  a  silence. 

"  Yes,  yes ;  I  meant  it.     But  it  was  horrible  ! — horrible  !" 

The  woman  did  not  speak.  She  felt  that  there  was  noth- 
ing for  her  to  say.  She  had  not  acted  on  the  impulse  of 
the  moment. 

Perhaps  no  one  save  an  artist  could  quite  understand 


REFORMATION  ?  269 

how  much  that  stroke  of  the  brush  had  cost  her.  And, 
perhaps,  she  would  regret  it.  Had  she  acted  upon  the 
urging  of  a  mere  fantastic  sentiment  ?  But  her  companion 
had  felt  the  same  sentiment  also.  And  when  she  thought 
of  Mrs.  Gerry  she  did  not  feel  as  if  it  were  a  whim  which 
had  impelled  her. 

Moore  walked  to  the  end  of  the  studio  and  sat  down  on 
a  couch.  He  bent  forward  with  an  arm  upon  each  knee. 
He  shaded  his  eyes  with  one  hand. 

Mrs.  Bradford  removed  the  canvas  from  the  easel  and 
placed  it  with  its  face  against  the  wall.  Mingled  with  her 
other  thoughts  was  the  inward  assurance  that  she  had  nev- 
er done  better  work.  But  that  thought  she  immediately  put 
away.  In  view  of  other  things,  it  was  an  unworthy  subject 
to  think  upon. 

Moore  rose  and  came  towards  her. 

"  You  must  think  me  very  weak,"  he  said. 

"  No,  no,"  she  answered.  "  Do  you  wish  me  to  paint 
another  portrait  of  Mrs.  Moore? — one  which  shall  be  merely 
a  conventional  likeness  ?  Would  it  not  be  better  for  me  to 
do  so  ?  and  if  any  questions  are  asked  concerning  this  it 
will  be  enough  to  reply  that  you  and  I  were  dissatisfied 
with  it." 

"  Certainly,  that  will  be  enough,"  answered  Moore.  "  But 
I'm  not  sure  that  I  want  another  portrait.  You  are  so  kind," 
he  continued.  "  We  are  going  out  of  town  in  a  few  weeks 
now.  Perhaps  we  shall  not  meet  again.  Mrs.  Bradford," 
with  a  sudden  increase  of  earnestness,  "  I  can't  help  wish- 
ing that  my  wife  knew  you  better.  Now,  thank  you,  and 
good-bye." 

Here  the  lady  rose  and  stood  in  front  of  him,  gazing  at 
him  intently. 

"  I  will  think  about  the  portrait.  But  my  feeling  is  now 
that  I  shall  not  want  it,"  said  Moore  again. 

-Mrs.  Bradford  accompanied  her  guest  into  the  hall.  She 
extended  her  hand  in  farewell. 


270  OUT   OF    STEP 

Though  she  called  later  upon  Salome,  the  latter  was  not 
at  home,  and  the  two  did  not  meet  again. 

Besides  Salome's  longing  to  be  in  the  country  with  her 
mother,  as  the  spring  grew  in  warmth  and  beauty,  there 
was  a  wish  to  be  out  of  the  way  of  meeting  Mrs.  Darrah  or 
Miss  Nunally.  She  never  knew  when  Mrs.  Darrah  might 
send  for  her,  and  when  she  was  thus  sent  for  Salome  did 
not  like  to  refuse. 

On  the  last  occasion,  when  she  had  thus  visited  the  Ven- 
dome,  Portia  had  been  in  her  aunt's  sitting-room,  as  was  to 
be  expected,  since  she  was  staying  at  the  hotel  with  Mrs. 
Darrah.  Dr.  Jennings  had  called  again.  Salome  felt  her 
terror  and  hate  spring  into  active  life  the  moment  she  saw 
him  come  across  the  room  towards  her.  She  could  not  give 
him  her  hand,  as  the  other  ladies  did.  She  drew  herself  up 
in  a  way  quite  unlike  her  ordinary  genial  self  and  bowed 
distantly.  His  coldly  hostile  glance  cut  its  way,  she  thought, 
right  to  all  her  faults,  as  it  had  clone  before. 

He  was  very  polite.  He  stood  by  her  side  much  longer 
than  was  necessary,  and  insisted  upon  conversing  with  her. 

But  she  saw  him  look  over  at  Portia  often,  and  presently 
he  was  beside  the  girl,  wearing  the  air  of  devotion  in  a  cu- 
rious way.  Still  his  face  did  not  soften  in  the  least.  He 
gazed  at  Portia  as  if  she  were  something  inanimate,  but 
which,  perhaps,  he  admired,  with  perfect  self-possession 
and  coolness. 

After  a  little  Salome  controlled  her  own  feelings  suffi- 
ciently to  enable  her  to  contemplate  Portia  with  some 
knowledge  of  her  manner.  And  her  manner  was  unmis- 
takably quelled.  At  first  it  seemed  that  this  could  not 
be.  But,  yes,  Dr.  Jennings's  calm,  icy  glance  took  in  every 
detail  of  Portia's  appearance,  and  then  rested  with  un- 
swerving assurance,  and  with  satisfaction,  upon  the  girl's 
face.  There  was  not  the  slightest  air  of  the  "  lover  "  about 
him,  but  Salome  was  convinced  before  she  rose  to  leave 
that  the  great  surgeon  was  an  admirer  of  Miss  Nunally. 
She  could  not  in  the  least  guess  what  would  be  Portia's 


REFORMATION  ? 


271 


idea  of  this  man  as  a  suitor,  for  she  was  so  unlike  herself 
that  she  seemed  to  be  some  one  else.  He  talked  much  and 
well ;  he  chose  his  words  with  perfect  accuracy,  and  he  de- 
ferred greatly  to  anything  Miss  Nunally  said,  but  he  did  not 
for  an  instant  fail  in  the  entire  and  perfectly  poised  control 
he  exercised  over  himself  and  over  her.  His  keen  eyes 
were  dominant. 

In  the  course  of  his  conversation  Salome  learned  that  he 
was  somewhat  out  of  health,  and  that  he  had  not,  since  his 
return  home,  resumed  the  practice  of  his  profession. 

That  evening  Salome  expressed  to  her  husband  her  de- 
sire to  go  into  the  country  directly — the  very  next  day.  She 
said  again  that  Boston  was  too  small  to  contain  both  herself 
and  that  celebrated  surgeon.  For  some  reason  she  said 
nothing  to  Moore  about  Dr.  Jennings  and  Portia.  Perhaps 
because  she  did  not  often  wish  to  speak  of  Miss  Nunally 
to  him.  The  memories  the  name  awakened  could  not  be 
pleasant  to  either. 

When  Salome  was  at  home  with  her  mother,  and  Moore 
was  also  there,  she  thought  no  more,  save  fleetingly,  of  Mrs. 
Darrah  and  her  niece,  or  of  Dr.  Jennings.  Why  should  she 
think  of  them  ?  She  did  not  see  them.  All  that  she  loved 
was  with  her.  Every  day  the  sun  rose  higher  in  the  heav- 
ens ;  every  day  the  air  was  warmer  and  sweeter.  The  in- 
tensity of  her  temperament,  which  must  make  for  vivid 
misery  or  vivid  happiness,  made  now  most  gloriously  for 
happiness.  The  tropical  luxuriousness  of  her  nature  ena- 
bled her  to  give  up  entirely  to  this  happiness.  She  did  not 
spoil  it  by  questioning.  The  New  England  part  of  her  was 
so  much  in  abeyance  that  she  could  successfully  put  the 
questioning  and  the  introspection  away. 

She  tried  not  to  forget  the  resolves  she  had  made  con- 
cerning truth.  She  used  to  talk  with  Moore  on  this  subject 
as  they  sat  under  the  trees  in  hot,  sunny  days,  or  strolled 
over  the  high,  sweet-smelling  pastures. 

Moore  had  never  dreamed  of  being  so  happy.  It  seemed 
to  him  now  that  his  hopes  were  being  fulfilled.  Salome 


272  OUT   OF   STEP 

was  proving  herself  to  be  susceptible  to  that  influence  that 
should  make  her  respect  the  truth.  How  could  she  avoid 
this  result  in  the  presence,  as  she  was,  of  the  two  beings 
whom  she  so  loved,  and  who  so  loved  her  ? 

"  I  would  do  anything  for  you,"  she  said  again,  as  she 
and  Moore  sat  under  a  pine-tree  which  grew  at  the  very 
top  of  a  pasture.  And  then  she  added,  with  a  laugh,  "  I 
would  even  tell  the  truth." 


XVII 
"THE  END  is  VISION" 

MOORE  winced  a  little. 

"  I  love  to  have  you  do  things  for  me,"  he  responded, 
"  only,  you  know,  if  I  were  out  of  the  question,  you  must 
still  tell  the  truth." 

He  had  not  spoken  like  this  since  their  talk  in  Boston, 
when  she  had  avowed  her  intention  of  "  reforming  for  his 
sake."  He  had  often  been  curious  to  know  if  she  still 
based  her  idea  of  reformation  on  that  one  foundation — for 
his  sake.  But  he  had  dreaded  to  ask. 

She  looked  at  him  attentively.     At  last  she  said  : 

"  I  can  do  this  or  that  because  you  like  to  have  me,  and 
because  I  love  you.  But  I  cannot  make  myself  over.  I've 
been  trying,  and  I  can't  do  it.  I've  tried  for  two  reasons  : 
because  I  hate  Dr.  Jennings,  and  because  I  love  you.  But 
I  know  now  it's  true  that  we  don't  change.  I  know  it  just 
as  well  as  if  I  had  worked  years  to  prove  it.  Even  a  love 
like  mine  for  you  doesn't  change  me.  You  know  what 
Schopenhauer  says  of  the  '  unchangeableness  of  innate 
tendencies  in  the  individual,  and  the  invariability  of  the 
primitive  disposition.'  He  thinks  only  '  appearances  are 
refined,  and  that  there  is  no  change  below  the  surface.'  " 

"  But  what  business  have  you  with  Schopenhauer  ?" 
asked  Moore,  with  some  heat.  "  Why  do  you  read  such 
depressing  stuff  as  he  writes  ?  We  might  as  well  give  up 
life  and  all  hope  of  everything  if  you  believe  what  he 
says." 

"  But  if  what  he  says  is  true,"  inquired  Salome,  mourn- 
fully, "what  shall  we  do  then?  You  love  truth  so  well, 


274  OUT  OF  STEP 

Randolph,  that  you  don't  want  to  choose  to  try  to  believe 
a  thing  because  it's  pleasant,  do  you  ?  I  might  do  that;  I 
think  I  should,  for  I  turn  to  whatever  will  make  me  happy. 
But  you  ? 

"  You  see,  when  I  was  in  Boston  I  used  to  go  to  the 
Public  Library  sometimes  when  you  were  away.  When  you 
have  a  thing  in  mind  it  is  odd  how  you  stumble  upon  the 
subject  everywhere,  almost.  So  I  happened  to  read  occa- 
sionally what  other  people  had  thought  about  what  I  was 
thinking  so  much.  I  didn't  get  much  encouragement. 
Even  Darwin  said  that  he  was  '  inclined  to  believe  that 
education  and  environment  produce  only  a  small  effect  on 
the  mind  of  any  one,  and  that  most  of  our  qualities  are  in- 
nate'— and  Francis  Gallon  thinks  so  too." 

Moore  stared  at  his  wife.  He  hardly  knew  whether  it 
would  be  better  to  laugh  at  her  or  to  treat  the  conversation 
seriously.  He  decided  that  it  would  be  frivolous  to  do  the 
former. 

"  Did  you  read  anything  on  the  other  side  ?"  he  asked. 

"  Oh  yes ;  I've  read  a  lot  on  the  other  side,"  was  the 
reply.  "And  you  know  that's  the  way  I  was  brought  up — 
to  think  that  we  can  make  ourselves  over  —  or  rather  that 
God,  Christ,  can  make  us  over  if  we  will  allow  it.  Were 
you  brought  up  so,  Randolph  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  I  suppose  my  mother  believes  that ;  I  know  she  does." 

Salome  spoke  with  deep  solemnity.  She  held  her  hus- 
band's hand,  but  she  was  not  looking  at  him;  she  was 
gazing  down  the  slope  of  the  field  into  the  blinding  sun- 
shine that  was  making  the  air  glimmer  with  heat,  and 
bringing  out  the  perfume  of  the  wild,  odorous  shrubs  all 
about  them. 

"  Yes,"  Salome  went  on  ;  "  my  mother  thinks  that  we  can 
make  of  ourselves,  in  a  degree,  what  we  will.  Perhaps  my 
mother  could  do  that.  But  I  have  about  made  up  my  mind 
that  we  are,  after  all,  more  or  less  the  slaves  of  inherited 
tendencies." 


"THE  END  is  VISION"  275 

Moore's  face  darkened  with  the  pain  her  words  gave 
him.  She  turned  towards  him  in  time  to  see  that  expres- 
sion. She  put  her  head  on  his  shoulder. 

"  Don't  look  so,"  she  whispered. 

"  But  I  thought  you  had  some  of  the  Christian  beliefs," 
he  said  ;  "  the  Christian  beliefs  are  surely  high  and  noble 
ones.  It  needs  no  argument  to  show  that." 

"  I  used  to  be  a  real,  truly  little  Christian,"  she  said, 
smiling  —  "  that  is,  I  was  a  skin-deep  one.  But  I  didn't 
know  then  that  I  was  so  shallow,  and  that  I  was,  in  fact, 
a  pagan.  Are  you  sorry  that  I  am  a  pagan,  Randolph? 
But  you  needn't  worry,  and  don't  tell  mother  that  I've 
been  talking  so  silly.  I've  been  just  as  truthful  all  these 
months  as  if  I  cared  for  the  truth.  But  it  is  you  I  care 
for." 

Moore  tried  not  to  show  the  depression  he  felt.  All  that 
day  and  the  next  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  could  think  of 
nothing  save  the  subject  of  this  conversation,  in  which  he 
had  borne  so  slight  a  part. 

On  the  third  day  the  two  were  sitting  again  under  the 
same  tree.  They  had  brought  some  books  to  read,  but 
after  a  little  Moore  shut  his  own  volume,  and,  leaning  for- 
ward, he  put  his  hand  on  the  open  page  of  Salome's  book. 

"  I  know  it's  stupid  to  read,"  she  said.  "  It's  a  thousand 
times  better  to  just  sit  and  take  in  this  day." 

Moore  replied  that  he  had  a  great  deal  to  say,  and  he 
proceeded  forthwith  to  say  it.  He  began  by  protesting, 
with  all  the  warmth  of  an  actually  painful  conviction,  that  a 
human  being  need  never  be  a  slave  to  anything;  that  the 
mind  and  the  will  were  to  be  used  to  cultivate  this  tendency 
and  to  suppress  that  tendency.  It  was  nothing  less  than 
criminal  for  a  man  to  decide  that,  because  he  happened  to 
be  born  with  an  inclination  to  stoop,  he  should  not  try  to 
throw  back  his  shoulders  and  stand  erect.  No  doubt  it 
was  harder  for  him  to  stand  erect  than  for  some  one  else 
who  had  a  good  backbone  to  begin  with.  It  was  just  so 
with  the  moral  nature. 


276  OUT   OF   STEP 

The  young  man  went  on  hurriedly,  but  with  some  force 
and  clearness,  to  state  those  arguments  which  have  been 
the  foundation  of  so  much  right  living  since  the  world  be- 
gan. He  had  never  talked  so  openly  and  forcefully  to 
Salome  since  he  had  known  her,  but  all  the  time  he  was 
speaking,  and  noth withstanding  her  dependent  attitude  and 
her  absorbed  listening,  he  knew  that  his  words  were  like 
water  washing  over  a  stone. 

Suddenly  he  stopped  in  the  middle  of  a  sentence.  He 
felt  as  if  a  cold  hand  had  been  laid  upon  him,  or  as  if 
some  voice  had  whispered  the  word  "  Impossible  !"  in  his 
ear. 

Salome  raised  her  head  from  his  shoulder,  where  she  had 
kept  it  closely  all  the  time  he  had  been  speaking. 

"Why  don't  you  go  on  ?"  she  asked. 

Moore  tried  to  smile. 

"  Why  should  I  go  on  ?"  he  inquired.  "  I  am  tired,  and 
I'm  sure  you  are  more  tired  than  I  am,  and  besides  it  oc- 
curs to  me  that  all  these  words  are  thrown  away.  You 
know  what  Browning  says  : 

"  Though  we  prayed  you, 
Brayed  you  in  a  mortar, 
For  you  could  not,  Sweet.' 

And  it  also  occurs  to  me  that  you  may  have  just  as  good 
a  right  to  think  as  you  do  as  I  have  to  think  as  I  do. 
Only — "  Here  Moore  abruptly  rose  to  his  feet.  A  deep 
red  flush  mounted  to  his  forehead  as  he  exclaimed:  "I 
wish  to  God  that  we  did  not  differ  about  a  vital  moral 
point !" 

Salome  leaned  her  head  back  against  the  tree -trunk. 
Her  eyes  were  fixed  on  her  husband's  face. 

Moore  felt  helplessly  that  he  could  tear  out  his  tongue 
for  having  spoken  impatiently  to  any  one  who  could  look 
at  him  like  that. 

"  Oh,  I  can't  help  it !  I  can't  help  it !"  exclaimed  Sa- 
lome. She  clasped  her  hands  as  she  added:  "  But  perhaps 


"THE  END  is  VISION"  277 

I  shall  be  able  to  act  as  you  want  me  to,  though  I  can't 
be  what  you  want  me  to  be." 

What  could  Moore  do  but  throw  himself  down  at  his 
wife's  side  and  try  to  comfort  her?  He  made  a  resolve 
that  he  would  never  again  attempt  to  make  her  other  than 
she  was  —  since  the  effort,  besides  being  entirely  useless, 
was  fraught  with  such  pain  for  them  both. 

Afterwards,  thinking  of  the  matter  more  calmly  by  him- 
self, he  extracted  a  great  deal  of  comfort  from  the  thought 
that  Salome  was  really  different  in  her  outward  regard  for 
truth. 

Now,  as  the  two  sat  there,  a  figure  turned  in  at  the  open 
bars  at  the  bottom  of  the  pasture.  Salome  saw  it  first,  but 
she  was  not  far-sighted;  she  could  only  see  that  it  was  a 
human  figure. 

Moore,  however,  sprang  up.  His  glance,  he  was  sure, 
could  not  be  mistaken  in  the  carriage  of  the  stranger. 

"  It's  Miss  Nunally,"  he  said.  "  I'm  going  to  run  away. 
Of  course  it's  you  she  wishes  to  see.  Odd  that  she  should 
come  out  here." 

And  Moore  strode  off  into  the  young  oak-wood  that  grew 
on  the  other  side  of  the  hill. 

Salome  watched  Portia  as  she  slowly  came  up  the  slope. 
She  dreaded  the  meeting.  She  wondered  what  freak  had 
sent  the  girl  here.  She  had  lost  all  track  of  Mrs.  Darrah 
and  her  niece  since  she  had  come  to  her  old  home,  and 
she  was  glad  of  it.  She  wished  that  she  might  never  see 
them  again.  And  yet  she  knew  that  she  could  still  feel 
that  personal  charm  which  belonged  to  Miss  Nunally  in  so 
marked  a  degree. 

When  she  was  still  a  good  many  rods  away  Portia  threw 
back  her  parasol  and  looked  up  the  hill.  She  saw  Salome, 
who  was  now  standing,  and  who  waved  her  hand  in  re- 
sponse to  the  same  gesture. 

In  a  few  moments  the  two  women  had  greeted  each 
other,  and  were  sitting  on  the  pine-needles.  Portia  took 
off  her  hat  and  ran  her  fingers  through  her  hair. 


278  OUT    OF    STEP 

"  I  wanted  to  see  you  alone,''  remarked  the  new-comer, 
"  and  when  your  mother  said  that  I  should  probably  find 
you  and  Mr.  Moore  under  this  pine-tree,  I  quite  reckoned 
upon  his  going  away,  as  he  has  kindly  done.  Don't  excuse 
him.  I  should  have  asked  him  to  go  if  he  hadn't  already 
gone." 

Having  spoken  thus,  Portia  relapsed  into  a  silence  that 
she  appeared  to  have  no  intention  of  breaking. 

Salome  wondered  if  she  had  come  merely  to  sit  beside 
her  and  say  nothing.  She  looked  at  her  closely.  She 
thought  her  companion  looked  old  and  depressed.  There 
seemed  nothing  at  all  of  the  usual  brilliant,  challenging  air 
that  was  so  stimulating  to  any  one  who  was  with  this  wom- 
an. There  was  an  inertness  in  her  attitude,  in  the  hands, 
that  was  not  merely  fatigue.  It  was  not  until  a  long  time 
had  passed  that  Portia  said : 

"  It  is  very  beautiful  here.  But  it's  a  great  mistake  to 
be  made  so  that  one  is  obliged  to  feel  beauty.  I'm  look- 
ing forward  to  old  age,  when  I  shall  not  feel  anything." 

She  turned  towards  Salome. 

"  For  all  that  has  happened,  or  can  happen,  it  will  always 
be  lovely  to  be  with  you,  Salome.  It  isn't  your  goodness, 
you  know.  It's  yourself." 

Salome  returned  the  gaze  fixed  upon  her.  She  asked, 
in  a  whisper  : 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?" 

"  Oh,  nothing  much,"  was  the  answer.  "  Only  I'm  en- 
gaged." 

Salome  involuntarily  drew  back. 

"To  that  man?"  she  exclaimed. 

"  Yes,"  the  other  replied.  "  I  thought  that  if  I  ever 
wanted  to  be  dissected  alive  he  would  be  delighted  to  do 
it,  and  that  no  one  could  do  it  more  skilfully.  He  never 
bungles  about  anything.  I  should  hate  a  bungler." 

"  But  do  you  love  him  ?" 

"  What  an  old-fashioned  question !  You  are  so  ridicu- 
lous, Salome.  No,  I  don't  love  him.  I  don't  want  to, 


"THE  END  is  VISION"  279 

either.  Think  of  what  a  woman  must  suffer  who  should 
love  Cyrus  Jennings !  He  is  absolutely  respectable.  I 
don't  think  he  ever  did  a  wrong  thing  in  his  life.  He  is  al- 
ways correct.  You  know  his  reputation  in  his  profession. 
He  has  quite  a  property;  his  income  is  very  large.  He  is 
able,  brilliant.  He  is  like  a  steel  blade — no,  not  steel,  for 
one  might  strike  a  spark  from  steel — a  blade  of  ice,  sharp 
and  cold.  He  hasn't  any  emotions  to  deplete  him.  He 
ought  to  live  forever.  I  think  he  will.  But,  thank  Heaven  ! 
I  shall  not  live  forever,  and  I  believe  in  marrying  for 
money,  particularly  if  you  can  respect  your  husband ;  and 
if  I  can't  respect  mine,  it  will  be  my  own  fault." 

Portia  had  spoken  all  this  with  her  peculiar  deliberate- 
ness  of  utterance. 

Now  she  turned  towards  Salome.  She  placed  her  hand, 
which,  in  spite  of  the  heat,  was  cold,  upon  Salome's  arm. 

"  Perhaps  it  was  strange,"  she  said,  now  speaking  un- 
steadily, "but  I  wanted  to  see  you — I  felt  as  if  I  must  see 
you  before — before  it  happened.  And  I  don't  think  we 
shall  ever  meet  again.  Dr.  Jennings  is  going  to  London. 
He  is  already  known  there,  and  a  most  flattering  offer  has 
been  made  to  him." 

She  finished  the  last  sentence  quite  firmly. 

Salome  put  her  arm  about  her  companion's  shoulders. 

"  Oh,  don't  do  it !"  she  cried. 

"Yes,  I  shall  do  it,"  was  the  hard  reply.  "  But  I  wanted 
to  see  you  once  more,"  and  her  voice  trembled  again. 
"  This  is  the  last  time  I  mean  to  have  any  kind  of  feeling — 
the  very  last,"  in  a  passionate  tone.  "  It  is  freezing  to  be 
with  that  man.  I'm  afraid  of  the  glance  of  his  eyes ;  when 
he  speaks  he  chills  me  ;  and  yet  I  have  a  strange  kind  of 
admiration  for  him.  Think  of  my  being  afraid  of  any  one ! 
Or,  rather,  you  need  not  think  of  me  at  all.  You  will  not 
You  are  too  happy.  And  now  I'm  going." 

She  made  an  attempt  to  rise,  but  Salome  held  her  hands. 

"  When,"  she  asked — "  when  is  it  to  be  ?" 

"  To-morrow." 


280  OUT   OF    STEP 

"  So  soon  !     That  is  dreadful !" 

"Oh  no,  not  dreadful.  It  is  an  extremely  brilliant 
match ;  suitable  in  every  way.  Besides,  you  know  '  if  it 
were  done  it  were  well  it  were  done  quickly.'  And  I  trust 
I  shall  be  grateful  because  I  have  made  out  so  well." 

Here  a  violent  sob  shook  the  girl's  form.  But  there 
were  no  tears  in  her  eyes. 

She  released  one  of  her  hands  and  put  her  arm  around 
Salome. 

"You  are  a  natural  woman,"  she  said;  "there's  no  make- 
believe  about  you.  And  you  are  happy — I  hope  you'll  be 
able  to  keep  up  that  habit  of  being  happy.  And  now 
good-bye." 

"  Can  nothing  stop  you  ?''  asked  Salome. 

"Yes ;  one  thing :  death.  There  might  be  another  thing 
— love;  but  that  is  now  impossible  for  me.  Good-bye." 

The  two  women  kissed  each  other,  and  Portia  walked 
away.  Salome  did  not  sit  down.  She  continued  standing, 
watching  the  girl  go  down  the  hill  as  she  had  watched  her 
come  up. 

At  the  very  bottom  of  the  slope  Portia  turned.  She 
made  no  gesture.  She  stood  gazing  for  a  moment  at  the 
woman  beneath  the  tree.  Then  she  went  on  out  of  sight. 

Mrs.  Gerry  said  that  Miss  Nunally  had  come  alone  in  a 
carriage  from  the  railroad  station.  She  had  fastened  the 
horse  in  the  yard  of  the  cottage  on  the  ledge,  and,  when  she 
had  made  her  inquiries,  had  gone  on.  On  her  return  she 
drove  away  without  coming  to  the  house  again. 

When  Salome  told  her  mother  of  the  intended  marriage, 
Mrs.  Gerry  remarked  that,  as  she  remembered  Dr.  Jennings, 
and  if  she  were  not  mistaken,  he  was  probably  the  only  per- 
son who  could  control  that  woman. 

"  But  she'll  be  unhappy,"  said  Salome. 

"  She'll  have  herself  to  thank,  then,"  responded  Mrs. 
Gerry.  Then  she  added,  in  a  more  charitable  tone,  "  But 
we  won't  judge  her.  When  I  saw  her  face  I  was  sorry  for 
her." 


"THE  END  is  VISION"  281 

"  You  needn't  waste  any  sorrow  on  her,"  now  remarked 
Moore,  rather  sharply.  "  She  will  get  what  she  has  bar- 
gained for — money  and  position.  She  hasn't  any  heart ; 
she  has  only  emotions.  And  such  women  are  the  cruel- 
lest creatures  in  the  world.  And  Jennings  is  a  gentleman, 
anyway." 

The  others  said  nothing  more. 

On  the  second  day  from  that  of  her  brief  visit  cards  came 
from  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Cyrus  Jennings  to  the  Moores.  Salome 
would  not  look  at  them.  And  it  was  in  silence  that  she  read 
an  item  that  Moore  showed  her  in  a  paper  which  told  of  the 
departure  of  the  great  surgeon  and  his  bride  for  a  residence 
in  London. 

Salome  could  hardly  understand  the  pain  the  thought  of 
this  marriage  gave.  And  she  could  not  understand,  try  as 
she  would,  anything  of  the  springs  of  action  in  a  woman 
like  Portia  Nunally,  who  seemed  refined  and  fastidious  ; 
but  no  woman  could  be  either  refined  or  fastidious  who 
could  deliberately  choose  to  make  a  marriage  of  conven- 
ience. 

After  this  incident  nothing  seemed  to  happen  all  the  rest 
of  the  summer  and  through  the  delightful  fall.  The  autumn 
gave  day  after  day  of  wonderful  sweetness  and  beauty — that 
indescribable  sweetness  which  only  a  New  England  autumn 
gives  in  its  fullest  measure.  It  is  such  calm  days  which,  as 
they  pass,  seem  to  leave  no  mark,  which  yet  go  further  than 
anything  else  to  the  deepening  of  delight. 

Sometimes  Nely  Scudder  would  come  over  to  the  cottage, 
and  she  and  Salome  would  go  into  the  woods  or  fields  for 
hours.  No  day  was  ever  too  hot  for  Salome,  and  Nely  did 
not  like  to  acknowledge  that  she  could  not  bear  comfort- 
ably a  heat  which  appeared  to  steep  Salome's  conscious- 
ness in  pleasure. 

Moore  would  lie  in  a  hammock  under  the  trees  near  the 
house,  and  his  wife  would  lean  over  him  and  express  her 
pity  for  one  who  did  not  know  how  to  appreciate  a  tem- 
perature that  was  simply  perfect.  She  assured  him  that 


282  OUT    OF    STEP 

she  did  not  wish  him  to  stir,  but  she  and  Nely  were  go- 
ing out  to  enjoy  the  day.  Once,  as  she  came  thus  to 
bid  him  good-bye,  she  said  that  there  was  only  one  draw- 
back. Here  she  hesitated,  and  waited  for  Moore  to  ques- 
tion her. 

"  And  what  is  that  ?" 

"  I'm  a  little  afraid — afraid  of  myself,"  she  answered. 
"  Something  that  has  been  asleep  in  me  wakes.  But  you 
think  I'm  fanciful,  don't  you,  Randolph  ?  Tell  me  that 
you  think  so." 

"  I  most  certainly  know  that  you  are  absurdly  fanciful," 
was  the  prompt  and  emphatic  response. 

"Yes;  you  must  be  right,"  she  returned.  She  looked 
up  at  the  sky.  "  Did  you  ever  see  such  a  hot,  pale  blue  ? 
It  is  almost  as  hot  as  a  Florida  sky  in  summer ;  almost, 
but  not  quite.  On  such  days  I  think  of  that  man  my 
mother  tells  me  about — the  man  from  the  West  Indies, 
her  grandfather,  whom  every  one  loved,  but  who  had  no 
principle.  He  was  my  great-grandfather,  you  know,  and 
none  of  his  descendants  have  been  in  the  least  like  him, 
until  I  was  born,  and  they  didn't  suspect  it  in  me  for  a 
long  time.  Now  read  yourself  to  sleep." 

She  turned  away.  Moore  half  rose.  He  had  an  im- 
pulse to  call  her  back.  But  he  did  not.  He  did  not  re- 
member that  she  had  ever  mentioned  that  West  Indian 
ancestor  in  just  that  way  before.  Indeed,  she  rarely  spoke 
of  him. 

Mrs.  Gerry  came  out  before  the  two  figures  were  hidden 
among  the  trees.  She  gazed  at  them.  Then  she  turned 
towards  Moore,  and  their  eyes  met  in  a  glance  of  affec- 
tion. 

"  Salome  is  happy,"  she  said. 

"  Yes,"  answered  the  young  man,  his  face  glowing  re- 
sponsive. 

The  October  "  days  of  golden  glory"  always  have  a  back- 
ground of  approaching  winter,  but  sometimes  this  back- 
ground seems  a  long  way  off.  It  seemed  a  long  way  off 


"THE  END  is  VISION"  283 

this  fall,  which  the  Moores  spent  in  the  country.  Every 
night  the  sun  left  a  flush  behind  him  in  which  the  stars 
slowly  appeared.  The  crickets  kept  up  their  agreeable 
monotony.  There  was  little  wind,  and  the  bright  leaves 
hung  on  the  trees  of  the  hills,  and  flamed  along  by  the 
narrow  water-courses.  The  green  pines  stood  against  the 
scarlet  oaks. 

"  I  reckon  we  sh'll  git  our  pay  for  this,"  remarked  Mr. 
Scudder  one  morning,  as  he  stopped  at  the  cottage  to  leave 
a  pound  of  butter.  "  I  ain't  known  no  such  fall  since  '67, 
when  it  lasted  right  up  to  December.  But  we  had  a  tough 
old  winter." 

"  Do  let  us  enjoy  this  while  it  lasts,"  responded  Salome. 

"  I  s'pose  you  folks  are  goin'  to  git  red  of  the  winter," 
said  Mr.  Scudder,  putting  the  change  given  in  payment  for 
the  butter  into  a  wash-leather  bag  that  he  had  extracted 
from  a  pocket  which  seemed  to  reach  nearly  down  to  his 
knee.  "  When  you  goin'  to  start  ?" 

"  We  thought  we'd  be  off  about  the  middle  of  Novem- 
ber," replied  Mrs.  Gerry. 

When  he  had  gone  Salome  sat  in  silence  by  the  window 
for  a  while. 

Mrs.  Gerry  felt  somehow  that  this  was  not  the  silence  of 
assent,  and  she  did  not  understand  it. 

The  two  were  alone,  for  Moore  had  gone  to  Boston.  Sa- 
lome had  been  washing  dishes  and  helping  "  do  up  the 
work."  Both  women  had  objected  to  Moore's  proposal 
that  they  have  a  servant.  They  said  a  servant  would  take 
away  all  the  home  feeling.  A  New  England  woman  who  is 
not  born  to  wealth  does  not  like  the  idea  of  receiving  ser- 
vice in  the  household;  it  confuses  her. 

Suddenly  Salome  said  :  "  I  suppose  you'd  be  glad  not  to 
go,  mother  ?" 

Mrs.  Gerry  was  putting  a  stick  of  wood  into  the  cook- 
stove.  The  two  were  in  the  kitchen,  where  the  sunlight 
was  coming  in  through  the  east  window. 

She  hastily  shut  the  stove,  and  then  turned  to  look  fully 


284  OUT   OF   STEP 

at  her  daughter.  Salome  smiled  into  her  mother's  anxious 
eyes. 

"I  shall  be  glad  to  go  anywhere  with  you,  child,"  she 
answered. 

"  I've  changed  my  mind,"  said  Salome.  "  I've  decided 
not  to  go  South  this  winter." 

"  Not  to  go  ?" 

Mrs.  Gerry  repeated  the  words  in  amazement.  She  knew 
well  with  what  joy  Salome  had  anticipated  the  coming  win- 
ter in  the  South  with  her  mother  and  her  husband.  She 
knew  that  not  to  go  must  be  something  like  turning  away 
from  Paradise  for  her  daughter. 

"  Of  course  you  are  surprised,"  said  the  younger  woman. 

"Yes,  I  am.     Does  Randolph  know?" 

"  I  haven't  spoken  of  it  before.  I  wanted  to  tell  you 
first.  Mother — "  Salome  rose  quickly  from  her  chair,  went 
to  her  mother's  side,  and  put  her  arms  about  her  in  that 
way  that  always  made  the  heart  of  the  elder  woman  start 
with  tenderness  and  fear — fear  of  she  knew  not  what. 

"  Mother,"  whispered  Salome,  "  I'm  afraid.  I  can't  go. 
I  wanted  to  tell  you.  Don't  do  anything  about  getting 
ready ;  I  shall  not  go." 

Mrs.  Gerry  sat  down  and  drew  her  child  into  her  lap,  as 
she  had  done  years  ago.  She  pressed  her  hand  on  Sa- 
lome's head,  which  rested  on  her  shoulder. 

"  What  is  it  ?"  she  asked.     "  Why  are  you  afraid  ?" 

All  the  sickening  anxiety  which  for  months  had  been 
sleeping  suddenly  sprang  fully  awake  in  the  woman's  mind. 
She  began  instinctively,  as  of  old,  to  arm  herself  that  she 
might  help  her  girl  in  whatever  way  she  might  need  help. 

"  I'm  afraid  of  myself,"  answejed  Salome. 

Her  mother  held  her  still  more  closely,  and  waited  until 
she  should  say  more.  In  a  moment  Salome  went  on  : 

"You  know  I'm  trying  to  be  good.  Perhaps  you  didn't 
know  it,  but  I  am.  I'm  not  really  any  more  good,  because 
I  feel  just  the  same.  But  Randolph — and  you — have  been 
so  unhappy — I  needn't  explain,  need  I  ?— ' 


"THE  END  is  VISION"  285 

Mrs.  Gerry  shook  her  head.  There  was  more  intensity 
in  Salome's  words  now  : 

"  Well,  it's  been  so  hard,  so  almost  impossible  for  me  to 
be — to  be  the  kind  of  girl  I  ought  to  be — this  last  summer, 
you  know — in  the  lovely  hot  weather  when  such  impulses 
spring  up  in  me,  and  part  of  me  clamors  to  yield,  and  the 
New  England  part  of  me,  I  call  it  that,  says  I  must  not 
yield,  and  all  the  time  I  feel  as  if  it  were  right,  only  that 
Randolph  —  and  you  —  want  me  to  be  a  different  kind  of 
woman.  And  I'm  wretched  at  thought  of  doing  what  you 
don't  like.  Oh,  do  you  understand  ?  I  can't  tell  you  so 
you'll  understand,  I'm  afraid.  I  want  to  live  with  the  two 
people  I  love,  in  the  South — and  just  live.  But  I've  made 
up  my  mind  to  stay  in  the  North  because — don't  laugh  at 
me — perhaps  in  time  in  the  North  I  could  cultivate  a  con- 
science, and  so  do  a  thing  because  it  is  right.  I've  found 
out  this  summer  for  sure  that  when  the  weather  is  so  di- 
vinely hot  I'm  more  of  a  pagan  than  ever.  It  all  sounds 
queer  enough  when  I  put  it  in  words,  doesn't  it  ?  But  it's 
true.  I  wish  it  were  not  true.  No,  don't  speak  yet.  It's 
just  as  if  there  were  something  coiled  up  in  me  that  is  my 
real,  genuine  self,  aside  from  all  my  bringing  up,  you  know. 
In  the  South  this  something  moves  and  moves,  and  then 
uncoils  and  comes  to  a  beautiful  life  and  takes  possession 
of  me  ;  and  I  drink  in  all  the  beauty  of  that  wonderful  coun- 
try where  there  isn't  any  snow,  and  where  the  sun  gets  into 
my  blood,  and  I  know  that  this  world  is  all  there  is — this 
magnificent,  seductive  world  that  smiles  at  me,  and  beckons 
me  and  intoxicates  me." 

Salome  pressed  her  face  more  closely  into  her  mother's 
neck. 

"  No,  I  shall  not  go  South.  You  see,  mother,  I  cannot 
go." 

Mrs.  Gerry  felt  the  slender  figure  vibrate  in  her  arms. 
She  could  not  yet  speak.  She  was  keenly  alive  to  the  feel- 
ing that  this  child,  who  was  so  unutterably  dear,  was  yet 
alien  to  her.  She  could  not  understand  her.  There  is 


286  OUT   OF   STEP 

something  terrible  in  loving  intensely  something  which  must 
forever  remain  a  mystery  to  us. 

Now,  as  ever,  Mrs.  Gerry  tried  first  of  all  to  hold  herself 
in  hand.  She  must  remain  outwardly  calm,  at  least.  Be- 
sides the  good  of  being  calm  just  for  the  sake  of  calmness, 
this  state  of  her  faculties  would  enable  her  to  be  of  greater 
help  to  her  daughter. 

"  Are  you  going  to  urge  me  to  go  ?"  at  last  inquired  Sa- 
lome. "  Because  it  won't  do  any  good." 

"  No  ;  I'm  not  going  to  urge  you.  I  think  you  ought  to 
consult  Randolph,"  said  Mrs.  Gerry. 

"  Yes,"  was  the  answer. 

Mrs.  Gerry's  clear  mind  noted  that,  while  Salome  really 
had  no  regard  for  uprightness  for  itself,  she  was  yet  curi- 
ously free  from  a  quite  common  duplicity  as  regarded  her 
motives  for  action.  She  was  possessed  of  an  almost  start- 
ling frankness  as  to  her  inner  self.  And  this  also  was  en- 
tirely foreign  to  the  Yankee  woman  who  was,  from  the  very 
necessity  of  her  nature,  deeply  reserved. 

She  was  sure  it  would  be  entirely  useless  to  talk  further 
on  this  subject.  All  talk  which  convinces  no  one  only  tends 
to  the  confirming  of  the  old  opinions. 

And  it  was  not  opinions  with  Salome ;  it  was  her  inward 
self,  as  the  color  of  her  eyes  was  part  of  her  outward  self. 
Why  should  any  one  attempt  to  reason  with  Salome  because 
her  eyes  were  hazel  ?  Of  what  earthly  good  to  convince 
her  that  they  should  have  been  blue? 

One  thing  Mrs.  Gerry  did  say : 

"  Have  you  thought  of  your  health  ?  You  know  it  is  good 
for  your  health  to  be  in  the  South  in  the  winter." 

"  I  haven't  thought  much  about  it.  I  think  I  shall  be 
well.  I  did  not  go  South  last  year." 

"  I  know.     But  you  had  some  trouble  in  your  chest." 

"  No  more  than  three-quarters  of  the  people  have,"  was 
the  feminine  reply. 

Mrs.  Gerry  said  no  more  then.  For  herself,  she  was 
glad  not  to  go.  For  her  the  South  had  no  charms ;  it  was 


"THE  END  is  VISION"  287 

a  place  where  such  people  as  Job  Maine  lived,  and  where, 
if  you  wanted  to  live  otherwise,  you  must  be  rich  and  lavish 
money  wickedly.  And  the  climate  took  all  her  strength ; 
it  did  not  brace  her  as  a  good  Northern  winter  braced. 
Notwithstanding  all  this,  however,  Mrs.  Gerry  would  gladly 
have  gone,  because  by  doing  so  she  could  add  to  her  child's 
well  being. 


XVIII 
"THE  END  is  VISION  AND  THE  END  is  NEAR" 

"WHAT  is  all  this  about  Salome's  not  going  South  this 
fall?"  Moore  asked  the  next  day,  as  he  found  Mrs.  Gerry 
alone. 

"  Hasn't  she  told  you  ?"  was  the  return  question. 

"  She  says  she  is  afraid  to  go,"  he  answered. 

Moore's  voice  involuntarily  softened  as  he  said  this.  To 
him  there  was  always  an  undertone  of  pathos  in  everything 
connected  with  his  wife. 

The  two  did  not  discuss  the  reason  for  Salome's  fear. 

"  Are  you  going  to  urge  her  to  go  ?"  inquired  Mrs.  Gerry. 

"  No ;  she  shall  do  as  she  pleases.  Only,  for  the  sake  of 
her  health,  I  wish  she  did  not  feel  this  way." 

Mrs.  Gerry  appeared  to  be  deeply  considering  the  cran- 
berries she  was  picking  over.  Finally  she  said:  "Sometimes 
I  feel  like  advising  you  to  insist  upon  her  going." 

"  But  she  has  such  a  strong  feeling ;  she  says  she  can't 
trust  herself.  Mother,  do  you  think  that  is  all  mere  fancy? 
Just  a  womanish  notion  which  I  ought  to  combat  ?" 

Mrs.  Gerry  took  another  handful  of  berries.  She  looked 
at  them  intently,  but  blindly.  Her  lips  were  pressed  close 
together. 

"  Don't  combat  it,"  she  at  last  replied.  "  The  older  I 
grow  the  more  I  see  the  uselessness  of  meddling  with  the 
individuality  of  another.  But  it  takes  a  lifetime  to  learn 
that.  I  thought  I  brought  Salome  up  right,  but  now  I  don't 
know.  She  was  just  like  other  good,  conscientious  girls — 
only  nicer — until  she  went  South  and  got  well.  Then  she 
seemed  to  shed  her  bringing-up  as  snakes  shed  their  skins. 


"THE  END  is  VISION  AND  THE  END  is  NEAR"       289 

It  wasn't  any  part  of  her,  after  all ;  and  I  had  thought  that 
it  was." 

Mrs.  Gerry  dropped  the  berries,  which  she  had  not  picked 
over,  into  the  wrong  dish.  She  pushed  the  chair  which 
held  the  two  dishes  away  from  her,  and  sat  upright.  But 
she  was  deliberate  in  her  movements ;  there  was  no  appear- 
ance of  disturbance  about  her. 

"  Randolph,"  she  said. 

She  placed  her  berry-stained  hand  on  his  arm. 

"  I'm  afraid  she'll  try  you  a  good  deal  as  the  years  go  on. 
Do  you  think  you  can  be  patient  with  her  ?" 

"  I  think  so,"  was  the  answer,  with  solemn  earnestness. 
And  he  added,  "  You  know  I  love  her." 

Moore  took  the  hand  from  his  arm  and  held  it  an  instant. 
He  had  one  serious  talk  with  his  wife  on  the  subject  of  go- 
ing South;  he  felt  that  he  must  do  that;  but  the  matter  was 
decided  as  Salome  wished.  Moore  could  not  remonstrate 
with  her  when  her  sole  reason  for  remaining  in  the  North 
was  that  she  felt  that  she  could  thus  the  better  school  her- 
self to  be  what  he  approved. 

Unknown  to  his  wife,  Moore  consulted  a  celebrated  phy- 
sician as  to  the  probability  of  her  being  able  to  stay  at  home 
without  harm  to  herself.  It  was  that  same  Dr.  Bowdoin 
who  had  been  summoned  by  Mr.  Gerry  to  prescribe  for  his 
daughter. 

Moore  tried  to  believe  that  it  was  solely  on  account  of 
her  weak  chest  that  he  did  thus,  but  secretly  he  longed  to 
have  a  skilled  and  unbiassed  opinion  concerning  a  few  of 
Salome's  characteristics.  Without  giving  details  which 
would  have  been  compromising,  he  yet  made  a  rather  clear 
statement  of  some  of  Salome's  tendencies. 

The  physician  took  his  words  with  that  easy  comfortable- 
ness which  is  so  cheering. 

"Ah,  I  see,"  he  said.  "  Her  real  self  and  her  nurture  are 
at  variance ;  that's  confusing.  We  are  bound  to  live  our 
real  selves  more  or  less,  and  we  often  confound  what  we 
were  born  to  be  with  what  we  are  educated  to  be.  A  mat- 


2QO  OUT   OF   STEP 

ter  of  heredity  frequently  does  not  display  itself  until  certain 
surroundings  call  it  into  life.  This  is  evidently  very  marked 
in  this  case.  And  she  is  abnormal  to  a  degree,  of  course. 
You  needn't  start ;  we  are  all  more  or  less  abnormal ;  we 
must  own  up  to  that.  It's  only  the  rank  and  file  who  are 
not  in  the  least  so.  A  person  with  no  marked  mental  or 
physical  idiosyncrasy  is  strictly  normal.  Now  about  her 
going  South — "  Here  the  doctor  meditated  a  moment. 
He  asked  two  or  three  questions. 

"  I  would  advise  her  to  go,"  he  said. 

Moore  was  more  perturbed  by  the  advice  than  he  had 
expected  to  be,  for  he  had  anticipated  this  counsel. 

He  kept  it  to  himself  for  some  da'ys ;  then  he  informed 
Mrs.  Gerry,  who  tried  to  conceal  her  distress. 

But  there  was  the  fact  that  Salome  suffered  little  from 
the  previous  winter,  and  that  she  seemed  well  now.  Still 
the  two  decided  that  she  must  know  what  the  doctor  had  said. 

She  only  smiled  at  the  information.  It  plainly  had  not 
the  slightest  effect  upon  her. 

And  so  the  subject  was  definitely  dropped.  The  project 
of  almost  forcing  a  woman  to  go  South  was  not  to  be 
thought  of. 

The  fall  days  continued  so  beautiful  that  it  seemed  as  if 
they  would  never  cease. 

But  at  last  a  warm  rain  began,  and  when,  after  two  days, 
it  stopped,  a  sharp  wind  from  the  northwest  sprang  up  and 
raved  over  the  fields  and  woods,  stripping  off  the  late  lin- 
gering leaves,  making  the  sky  a  steel  blue.  At  sunset  it 
subsided,  but  there  was  not  one  cricket  brave  enough  to 
make  a  sound  over  all  the  land  round  about. 

The  squashes  and  pumpkins  were  brought  and.  put  under 
piazza  roofs.  The  farmers'  wives  carefully  took  up  the 
house  plants  which  they  had  set  in  the  garden  for  the  sum- 
mer, and  they  spread  old  comforters  over  some  late1  blooms 
that  they  might  enjoy  them  a  few  days  more.  "  For,"  they 
said,  "  we  shall  have  a  little  more  warm  weather  after  this 
cold  spell." 


;THE    END    IS   VISION   AND   THE    END    IS   NEAR" 


29I 


The  next  morning  the  white  frost  was  on  everything ;  it 
even  covered  the  grass  on  the  south  side  of  the  Gerry  cot- 
tage. 

And  there  was  no  "warm  spell"  after  it.  Winter  came 
on  hurriedly.  Flurries  of  snow  hastened  through  the  air. 
The  chickadees  flitted  cheerily  among  the  trees.  But  the 
bluebirds  were  all  gone. 

"  Don't  you  change  your  mind  the  least  little  bit  ?"  asked 
Moore,  as  he  and  his  wife  breasted  the  sharp  wind  in  a 
walk  from  the  post-office  one  day. 

This  same  wind  had  given  her  a  lovely  color.  She 
laughed  gayly. 

"  I'm  always  changing  my  mind,"  she  answered,  "  but 
not  about  going  South.  And,  Randolph,"  taking  his  arm, 
"  it's  all  for  your  sake.  I'm  getting  to  know  myself  so 
well." 

The  two  women  wished  to  stay  in  the  country  until  after 
Christmas ;  then  the  Moores  would  set  up  housekeeping  in 
Boston,  and  Mrs.  Gerry  would  live  with  them. 

Moore  had  taken  a  house,  and  it  gave  Salome  and  her 
mother  a  great  deal  of  interesting  employment  to  oversee 
the  furnishing  of  it. 

The  cold  weather  seemed  to  have  no  effect  on  Salome. 
She  was  in  the  best  of  spirits.  She  would  have  cheered 
her  husband  and  her  mother  if  they  had  needed  cheer- 
ing. 

One  day  she  suddenly  said  to  Moore : 

"  You  didn't  want  my  portrait,  after  all  ?" 

She  had  not  mentioned  the  subject  before,  and  had 
asked  no  questions  when  her  husband  had  briefly  told  her 
that  he  and  the  artist  were  dissatisfied  with  the  work. 

"Yes,  certainly,  I  wanted  it,"  he  answered,  promptly. 
"  I  meant  to  talk  with  you  about  that,  but  I  haven't  done 
so.  And  I  wondered  that  you  were  not  curious." 

"  I  was  curious,  but  I  guessed." 

"  Well,  what  did  you  guess  ?"  Moore  turned  towards  her 
and  asked  his  question  quickly. 


2Q2  OUT   OF   STEP 

It  had  seemed  to  him  before  his  marriage  that  it  would 
be  endlessly  interesting  to  study  Salome.  And  he  was  still 
of  the  same  mind.  If  there  were  lacking  in  this  study  an 
element  of  rest  quite  necessary  to  everyday  life,  who  was 
to  blame  ?  Not  Salome,  surely. 

"  I  guessed  that  the  portrait  was  too  much  like  me,"  she 
replied. 

She  was  watching  his  face,  and  she  added  : 

"  And  now  I  know  I  was  right." 

Neither  tried  to  continue  the  subject.  It  was  something 
that  it  seemed  quite  impossible  to  talk  about ;  and  now  to 
Moore,  looked  at  in  the  light  of  the  past,  and  without  the 
portrait  before  him,  the  whole  affair  had  a  fanciful  and 
ludicrous  aspect.  He  would  have  unmercifully  derided 
the  incident  had  others  been  concerned  in  it.  Or  so  he 
half  thought  now. 

He  still  was  obliged  to  go  to  New  York  occasionally  con- 
cerning the  property  he  had  inherited  and  to  arrange  as  to 
a  business  project.  Because  he  was  now  a  rich  man  was 
no  reason  why,  in  his  eyes,  he  should  be  an  idle  one.  He 
was  essentially  active,  and  he  had  a  strong  taste  for  mer- 
cantile pursuits.  He  had  intended,  however,  to  allow  these 
plans  to  remain  in  the  background  through  the  winter, 
which  he  had  expected  to  spend  in  the  South.  Now  this 
was  changed. 

Meanwhile  the  two  women  were  busy  with  household 
furnishings.  To  the  elder  woman  these  furnishings  seemed 
wickedly  lavish ;  but  the  younger  one  took  easily  and 
naturally  to  all  luxuries,  though  she  was  perfectly  content 
without  them. 

Coming  out  to  the  cottage  one  night  in  the  week  before 
Christmas,  Salome  and  her  mother  found  that  there  was  no 
"  depot  wagon  "  in  waiting  at  the  station.  It  had  been  dis- 
continued for  the  season  for  the  first  time  that  day.  The 
agent  said  "  it  didn't  pay  for  cart-wheel  grease  to  run  a 
carriage  in  the  winter  for  this  train,  so  old  Little  had 
stopped." 


"THE  END  is  VISION  AND  THE  END  is  NEAR"       293 

The  only  two  passengers  who  had  alighted  here  stood  a 
moment  on  the  platform  by  the  agent,  who  was  swinging 
his  lantern  back  and  forth.  It  had  snowed  in  the  fore- 
noon; but  afterwards  the  weather  had  grown  warmer.  It 
was  mild  and  starlight  now,  and  the  clear  crescent  of  a  new 
moon  was  in  the  west. 

"  It's  only  a  mile  and  a  half,  mother,"  said  Salome ;  "  we 
must  walk." 

"  I  wish  'twas  better  going,"  was  the  response.  "  But  it's 
no  use  trying  to  get  a  horse,  for  we  can't  do  it." 

So  they  set  out.  It  was  only  six  o'clock,  but  the  feeling  and 
the  aspect  of  the  surroundings  indicated  midnight  at  least. 

They  walked  through  what  in  this  part  of  the  country 
was  currently  and  graphically  called  "  posh,"  and  trousers 
and  rubber  boots  are  the  suitable  array  for  any  one  who 
must  travel  in  such  stuff. 

Although  these  two  wore  overshoes,  a  woman's  overshoes 
amount  to  very  little  in  the  way  of  protection,  except  against 
a  slight  dampness. 

After  a  few  rods  their  feet  were  soaked  in  snow-water. 
Then  they  ceased  trying  to  pick  their  way  with  raised  skirts 
and  hesitating  steps,  after  the  manner  of  women. 

"We  might  as  well  splash  right  along,"  said  Salome, 
who  was  in  high  spirits. 

So  they  did  splash  along  through  the  half-melted  snow. 
And  when  they  reached  home  they  changed  their  clothes, 
brewed  some  ginger  tea  and  drank  it,  sitting  side  by  side 
in  front  of  the  cook-stove  with  their  feet  in  the  oven. 

"  If  you  only  haven't  taken  cold,"  said  Mrs.  Gerry,  as 
they  sipped  their  drink  and  were  comfortable  and  cosey. 

"  If  you  only  haven't  taken  cold  yourself  !"  was  the  re- 
tort, with  a  gay  laugh,  and  a  hug  from  the  arm  whose  hand 
did  not  hold  the  cup  of  ginger  tea. 

Mrs.  Gerry  rose  towards  morning  and  went  into  her 
daughter's  room. 

"Is  that  you,  mother?"  inquired  the  fresh  young  voice 
in  a  wide-awake  manner. 


294  OUT  OF  STEP 

"  I  was  so  foolish  as  to  get  to  worrying,"  was  the  apolo- 
getic reply. 

Salome  raised  herself  on  her  arm.  Her  eyes  shone  in 
the  lamplight.  » 

"You  must  act  on  the  ground  that  there  is  no  such  thing 
as  catching  cold,"  she  said ;  "  then  you  can't  take  cold  be- 
cause there's  no  cold  to  take." 

Salome  laughed  a  little,  gave  a  slight  cough,  and  put  her 
head  back  on  the  pillow. 

She  looked  so  very  wide  awake  that  her  mother  asked  if 
she  had  been  asleep. 

"I  don't  think  I  have,"  was  the  answer;  "but  my 
thoughts  have  been  so  unusually  clear  that  I  have  quite  en- 
joyed them." 

There  was  something,  she  hardly  knew  what,  that  now 
thoroughly  alarmed  Mrs.  Gerry;  therefore  she  was  appar- 
ently more  than  usually  calm  and  matter-of-fact.. 

That  day  Salome  did  not  seem  really  ill,  though  she  did 
not  refuse  to  sit  or  lie  all  day  long  in  the  kitchen  where 
her  mother  was  persistently  busy.  And  she  was  very  gay. 
One  might  almost  have  said  that  something — what  could  it 
be  ? — had  happened  to  please  her. 

Sometimes  she  coughed  shortly  and  dryly.  Twice  when 
she  did  so  there  was  a  spot  of  bright  scarlet  on  her  hand- 
kerchief. But  her  mother  did  not  know  that. 

Without  knowing  that,  however,  Mrs.  Gerry  had  gone 
over  to  Mr.  Scudder's  for  butter,  and  had  asked  Mr.  Scud- 
der  to  drive  to  the  station  and  telegraph  to  that  Dr.  Bow- 
doin  who  had,  a  few  years  before,  sent  Salome  to  Florida. 

But  no  hint  of  this  errand  could  be  seen  in  her  manner 
when  she  returned  with  the  butten 

The  two  talked  cheerfully.  When  evening  came  Salome 
coughed  a  little  more,  and  her  cheeks  were  red.  Her 
mother  brought  her  some  milk  to  drink.  She  made  a  pre- 
tence of  wanting  it  very  much,  but  she  could  not  quite  con- 
ceal the  effort  required  to  enable  her  to  drink  it. 

When  it  drew  towards  midnight  Mrs.  Gerry  told  Salome 


"THE  END  is  VISION  AND  THE  END  is  NEAR"      295 

that  she  expected  Dr.  Bowdoin  from  Boston  in  that  train  ; 
Mr.  Scudder  would  bring  him  from  the  station.  She 
added,  by  way  of  explanation  : 

"  I  was  afraid  you  might  have  a  touch  of  pneumonia,  and 
I  wanted  the  best  advice  ;  since  I  knew  Randolph  would 
approve." 

Before  the  doctor  arrived  a  bed  had  been  put  up  in  the 
bit  of  a  sitting-room,  and  Salome  was  established  in  it. 
She  was  still  so  cheerful  as  to  be  almost  gay.  She  said  it 
was  really  absurd  to  make  any  arrangement  like  that. 

When  Dr.  Bowdoin  came  he  sat  by  Salome's  bed  for  half 
an  hour.  He  put  very  few  questions.  Only  talked  a  little 
with  her. 

In  the  kitchen  with  Mrs.  Gerry  he  asked,  sharply : 

"  Why  didn't  she  go  South,  as  I  recommended  ?  She 
would  have  been  saved  this." 

Mrs.  Gerry  was  white,  but  composed. 

"We  couldn't  persuade  her  to  go,"  she  answered.  She 
made  a  moment's  pause,  then  she  asked,  firmly  : 

"  Will  you  tell  me  how  she  is  ?     I  must  know." 

The  man  looked  at  her  keenly. 

"  You  know  just  as  well  as  I  do,"  he  answered,  "  that 
she  is  bad — very  bad.  She  is  going  to  have  that  kind  of 
phthisis  which  only  lasts  a  few  weeks." 

Mrs.  Gerry  stood  erect.     She  did  not  make  a  gesture. 

Dr.  Bowdoin  placed  a  chair  for  her,  and  gently  made  her 
sit. 

"  It  sounds  brutal  to  tell  you,"  he  said,  "  but  one  must 
know  the  truth.  Isn't  your  daughter  happy  ?"  he  in- 
quired. 

"  Very  happy,"  was  the  answer. 

"  But  she  doesn't  want  to  live,"  was  the  startling  state- 
ment from  the  doctor. 

Mrs.  Gerry  could  not  speak.  She  looked  at  the  man  be- 
fore her. 

"  I'm  sure  of  it,"  he  added,  "  though  she  said  no  such 
thing.  But  it  makes  no  difference.  She  has  this  predis- 


296  OUT   OF   STEP 

position  —  it  could  not  be  safe  for  her  to  spend  winters  in 
this  climate.  In  fact,  she  ought  to  have  lived  all  the  time 
South." 

Then  followed  some  directions,  to  which  Mrs.  Gerry 
listened  carefully. 

The  doctor  said  he  would  come  again  in  three  days.  Mr. 
Scudder,  a  few  moments  later,  took  him  to  an  adjoining 
town,  were  he  could  catch  a  train  to  Boston. 

Mrs.  Gerry  was  left  alone  in  the  cottage  with  Salome. 

She  sat  down  on  the  lounge  where  Salome  had  lain  the 
day  before.  She  sat  on  the  very  edge,  her  hands  lying  in 
her  lap. 

She  did  not  know  how  long  she  sat  there,  but  not  long. 

Presently  she  rose  and  went  softly  to  the  door  of  the 
sitting-room. 

Her  child  was  sleeping  now.  Her  child.  Not  the  grown 
woman  and  wife,  but  her  child. 

"  Our  little  girl,"  her  husband  used  to  call  her. 

She  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  room.  Every  one  knows 
how  keen  is  the  mechanical  vision  at  such  times. 

Mrs.  Gerry's  eyes  took  in  every  homely  detail  of  the 
place.  She  saw  a  slip  of  paper  on  the  lounge  by  the  pillow 
where  Salome  had  been  lying  that  day.  Without  knowing 
or  caring  what  it  was,  the  woman  picked  up  the  newspaper 
cutting,  adjusted  her  glasses,  and  held  it  to  the  lamp.  She 
read  it,  or  she  would  have  said  she  was  reading  it,  though 
her  mind  did  not  at  first  take  in  a  single  word,  much  less 
an  idea. 

She  did  not  know  what  to  do.  She  stood  there  with  the 
lamp  in  one  hand  and  the  slip  in  the  other. 

Presently,  however,  her  mind  absorbed  the  printed  lines, 
and,  as  sometimes  happens,  they  immediately  began  to  form 
part  of  this  experience.  Afterwards  she  could  never  recall 
this  illness  without  recalling,  word  for  word,  what  she  read 
then.  And  always  her  whole  being  strenuously  and  pite- 
ously  rebelled,  as  we  mortals  must  rebel  to  the  end  of  time, 
even  though  we  have  phases  of  faith  and  hope. 


"THE  END  is  VISION  AND  THE  END  is  NEAR"      297 

' '  Where  are  the  voices  kings  were  glad  to  hear  ? 
Where  now  the  feast,  the  song,  the  bayadere  ? 
The  end  is  nothing,  and  the  end  is  near. 

"  And  yonder  lovely  rose  ;  alas  !  my  dear  ! 
See  the  November  garden  rank  and  drear ; 
The  end  is  nothing,  and  the  end  is  near. 

"  Then  vex  thyself  no  more  with  thought  austere, 
Take  what  thou  canst  while  thou  abidest  here, 
Seek  finer  pleasures  each  returning  year  ; 

"The  end  is  nothing,  and  the  end  is  near. 
Joy  is  the  Lord,  and  Love  his  charioteer  ; 
Be  tranquil  and  rejoicing,  oh,  my  dear  ! 

' '  Shun  the  wild  seas,  far  from  the  breakers  steer  ; 
The  end  is  vision  and  the  end  is  near. 
List  to  the  wisdom  learned  of  Saint  and  Seer  ! 

"The  living  Lord  is  Joy,  and  peace  His  sphere; 
Rebel  no  more  !     Throw  down  thy  shield  and  spear, 
Surrender  all  thyself  ;  true  life  is  here  ; 

"  The  end  is  vision  and  the  end  is  near. 
Forget  not  this,  forget  not  that,  my  dear  ! 
'Tis  all  and  nothing,  and  the  end  is  near. 
— Writ  on  a  ruined  palace  in  Kashmir." 

Having  read  these  verses  twice  through,  Mrs.  Gerry 
walked  across  the  room  and  carefully  placed  the  lamp  on 
the  table.  She  noiselessly  put  some  wood  in  the  stove. 
She  would  sit  up  the  rest  of  the  night.  Why  should  she  lie 
down  ?  She  could  not  sleep.  Probably  Salome  would  not 
need  her,  but  she  could  not  sleep. 

And  the  child  had  been  reading  such  words  as  these  ? 
They  were  pagan  words.  There  was  no  glimmer  of  high 
faith  in  them.  It  was  as  if  this  world  were  all  there  was. 
This  world !  Why,  this  world  was  nothing — nothing.  In  the 
world  to  come  was  the  substance,  the  fruition,  the  fulfil- 
ment of  God's  promises.  If  it  were  not  so —  Here  the 
woman's  thoughts,  which  had  gone  on  coherently,  suddenly 


298  OUT   OF   STEP 

paused,  as  over  a  black  abyss.  But  her  faith  spread  wings 
to  fly  over  this  abyss.  If  that  faith  might  only  take  Salome, 
her  own  child,  with  her.  In  death,  as  in  life,  she  must  take 
care  of  Salome. 

Sitting  there  motionless,  with  her  hands  resting  on  the 
slip  of  paper,  the  mother  endured  that  night  what  she  could 
never  tell. 

And  in  the  next  room  Salome  slept. 

In  the  morning  Mrs.  Gerry,  when  she  was  sure  her 
daughter  was  fully  awake,  took  in  a  dainty  breakfast,  care- 
fully arranged.  She  said  that,  as  Salome  had  fallen  asleep 
so  late,  she  would  indulge  her. 

By  noon  the  invalid  was  up  and  dressed  and  in  the  arm- 
chair by  the  kitchen  stove.  She  would  rather  be  where  her 
mother  was  at  work.  She  did  not  seem  very  ill.  Mrs. 
Gerry  had  not  sent  for  Moore,  because  he  was  to  arrive  that 
afternoon. 

Salome  sat  where  she  could  see  him  when  he  turned  the 
curve  in  the  road  from  the  station.  There  he  was,  tall 
and  strong,  and  striding  along  briskly.  He  recognized  her 
and  tossed  up  his  hat.  She  saw  his  eyes  shine ;  his  teeth 
gleamed  under  his  yellow  mustache. 

Mrs.  Gerry  was  furtively  watching  her  daughter's  face.  A 
look  of  intense  agony  was  on  that  face  for  an  instant ;  then 
it  was  gone.  Salome  did  not  take  her  gaze  from  her  hus- 
band as  long  as  he  was  in  sight. 

The  next  moment  he  had  entered  the  room  and  she  had 
sprung  up  to  meet  him. 

All  the  rest  of  the  day  Mrs.  Gerry  felt  like  a  coward. 
She  carefully  avoided  being  alone  with  Moore  for  a  mo- 
ment. It  seemed  to  her  that  she  could  not  say  to  him  what 
she  knew  she  must  say. 

At  last  the  time  came.  Moore  followed  her  out  into  the 
shed  where  the  wood  was  stored.  Salome  was  asleep  on 
the  lounge.  She  had  been  coughing,  and  he  had  seen  the 
splotches  of  blood  on  her  handkerchief,  though  she  did  not 
know  that  he  had  seen  them. 


"THE  END  is  VISION  AND  THE  END  is  NEAR"      299 

Mrs.  Gerry  felt  her  arm  taken  in  a  fierce  hold. 

She  looked  up.  Meeting  the  young  man's  eyes,  she  sud- 
denly leaned  against  him,  shivering. 

But  he  did  not  shiver.     He  was  tense. 

"  We  will  go  to  Florida  next  week,"  he  whispered,  ea- 
gerly. "  The  South  cured  her  before ;  it  will  cure  her 
again." 

He  held  his  companion  closely  to  him. 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  No,  no.  It  will  do  no  good.  The  doctor  will  tell  you. 
But  I  don't  need  any  doctor  to  tell  me,  I've  seen  this  be- 
fore. We  must  try  to  be  cheerful  with  her." 

She  removed  herself  from  Moore's  hold.  He  kept  him- 
self rigid. 

"  Good  God  !  Good  God  !"  he  cried.     "  I  can't  bear  it." 

He  went  out-of-doors.  He  had  gone  only  a  few  yards 
when  Mrs.  Gerry  called  him  back;  she  had  his  hat  and 
overcoat.  She  told  him  that  he  must  keep  well. 

When  Dr.  Bowdoin  came  he  forbade  them  to  think  of 
going  South. 

"  Make  her  as  comfortable  as  you  can  here,"  he  said. 

One  day  Salome  told  Moore  that  there  were  two  or  three 
things  she  wanted  to  say.  He  responded  that  there  was 
enough  in  which  to  say  things. 

But  she  insisted.  She  was  quite  calm,  as  sick  people  will 
time  often  be. 

She  explained  that  one  reason  why  she  had  decided  that 
she  would  not  go  South  was  because  she  thought  that  per- 
haps this  very  thing  would  happen.  She  almost  hoped  it 
would. 

She  moved  more  closely  to  him.  "  This  is  much  the  best 
way.  And  now  I'm  sure  you  will  always  think  of  me  as  I 
long  to  have  you  think.  And  if  I  went  on  living  year  after 
year,  I  couldn't  possibly  keep  on  being  good.  I'm  convinced 
of  that.  And  to  be  by  your  side  through  a  long  life,  and  to 
be  out  of  step  with  you,  and  out  of  step  with  true  and  high 
things  which  you  value,  and  which  my  mother  values — ' 


300  OUT   OF    STEP 

here  she  broke  off.  "  But,  oh,  Randolph,  we've  known  what 
it  is  to  be  happy,  haven't  we  ?" 

Moore  did  not  speak.     He  sat  silently  holding  her. 

They  took  care  of  her  for  more  than  two  months.  In 
March  she  died. 

A  dark,  saturnine  man  who  had  not  come  near  the  cot- 
tage, sometimes — later — went  to  the  grave. 

The  neighbors  -were  surprised  that  "  Redd  "  took  it  so 
hard.  "  He  didn't  say  anything,  but  he  wasn't  the  same.'' 

Often  Moore  stood  by  the  grave,  and  with  him  was  a 
spare  woman,  now  seeming  long  past  middle  age.  And  this 
young  man  and  this  elderly  woman  knew  "  that  their  keen- 
est joy  and  keenest  sorrow  were  forever  buried  there." 


THE   END 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below 


REC'0  LD-URL 
NGV17W 

"nin 


L,9-Series  444 


L  006  015  210  5 


PS 
26 
P786 


